The UFO Conspiracy Trilogy

by David Bischoff

  “Yes,” said Scarborough. “A possibility, but... What has Diane been saying about what the Others told her?”

  For the first time, Jake Camden frowned. “You’re going to have to ask her that for yourself. Marsha’s bringing her up any minute now.”

  Scarborough’s mind, previously spinning and disoriented from all this input, suddenly focused.

  “Diane... Marsha... yes... I need to talk to them both.”

  “Right. Good man! I’ll just go out and see if I can find the girls!”

  The reporter exited, whistling a jaunty “Pennies from Heaven.”

  Scarborough’s head fell back on his pillow.

  Shot! But by who…? And why…? If it were meant to be a fatal shot, would the assailant try again? Or was this, as Jake suggested, a warning?

  And Jake’s story... it seemed so unlikely, so full of holes. What was going on?

  All the events of the past weeks tumbled onto the floor like pick-up sticks—forming absolutely no patterns. Why had the crazy man shot at him at the beginning of all this, there at the University of Maryland? Why had he been shot in the Mall...? But more, if he had been meant to be killed there, why was he still alive?

  He fell back into his pillow, at a loss. Hopeless, just hopeless.

  There was a knock on the door.

  A wealth of curly black hair leaned in above a smile. “Hi there. I understand you’re awake.”

  “Yes.”

  “Can I come in?”

  “Please do.”

  “How are you feeling?”

  “Lousy.”

  “I should get the doctor to come in and look at you. He examined you after you woke up the first time. Said you’d be okay. But he said there would be pain.”

  “Well, I’ve got the pain, all right. And I’ve got some satisfaction.”

  Marsha smiled. “Yes, Jake said he’d showed you the articles, filled you in. We’re free, Ev. All charges against me were dropped just two days ago in a hearing. I’ve been granted a short leave to help you recover.”

  “How thoughtful of the Air Force.”

  “Needless to say, charges against you have been dropped as well. And when you get out of here, you’re even going to get some government security at your house for a while—at least for the duration of the investigation.”

  “Too bad we can’t sic them on Mitchell Cranston.”

  “We can, Ev. I’ve got all that stuff I gleaned from the phone banks.”

  “I don’t think that would hold against him in a court of law. And I’ve got a strong feeling that if Cranston really wanted it, I’d be dead now... and so would Jake. No, he’s got something else up his sleeve... And I don’t know what. And what about the Others? Are we going to testify that we talked to the Others?”

  “Well, I’m sure that’s going to be part of Jake’s book—and your book, if you write one. But we don’t have any proof, do we?”

  “No. No, we don’t. But that was part of what the Others wanted, right? They don’t want objective evidence of their existence. They just want the damage to be undone. I think it would be all right if we mentioned them... But without proof, we’ll probably just be laughed at by the establishment.”

  “But taken quite seriously by the general population.”

  “Yes—which will alter the average person’s worldview...”

  “And prepare them, perhaps, for when the Others do decide to make official First Contact.”

  “Yes. Or so they say.”

  “You doubt their story now?”

  “I don’t know. I don’t know what I believe; I don’t know what I doubt.”

  “Lowell Davis called. He wishes you well. He’s very pleased. He hasn’t received any other word from his Mr. X, though.”

  “Terrific. Well, Lowell Davis isn’t the one who went through hell here. And I’m not going to authorize any kind of book from him on the subject.”

  “He never mentioned writing one.”

  “And Diane…”

  “Yes, she’s out there. She had to use the ladies room. She’ll be here in just a moment.” She bent over and kissed him. “Hmm. I’m already working on a transfer down to this area, Ev. Hope that’s okay with you.”

  “Well, there’s one bit of good news!”

  “I’m glad you’re pleased. We’ll see how this relationship works when it’s not pumped full of adrenaline, right? We’ll have fun.”

  “I’m looking forward to life without that stuff, yes.”

  A voice interrupted them. “I’m sorry. You guys want to be alone?”

  Scarborough craned his neck, saw that his daughter Diane was standing in the doorway. “Diane,” he said, trying to raise his voice with joy, and chagrined to discover it coming out more of a croak.

  “Hi, Dad.”

  “Come on in, Diane. Your father really wants to see you.”

  Diane came in hesitantly.

  Everett Scarborough opened his arms to her as best he could, and she hugged him gingerly. “I don’t want to hurt you, Dad.”

  He leaned back. “Doctor says I’ll be all right. And Diane... you look wonderful!”

  She did indeed... a lot better than when he saw her last, with Brian Richards. She wore a pink blouse now, with loose slacks. Her hair looked as though she’d just had it done recently, and she wore it back, tied in a fresh yellow ribbon. She smelled nice, too, well-scrubbed, with just a touch of perfume. Somehow more than the bright young creature he had held in his arms years ago—and yet there was that precious little girl there still, in her eyes, in the way she held herself.

  “Thanks, Dad. I’m still not really up to snuff, though.”

  “Hey. Neither am I.”

  “They killed Tim, Dad.”

  “I’m... I’m really sorry.”

  A moment of awkward silence.

  “I’m back at the house. Hope that’s okay.”

  “Darling, you know it is... stay as long as you like. In fact, I think that’s a very good idea.”

  She laughed. “You can beat someone at chess while you convalesce.”

  “Or lose in gin rummy. No, I just want to… well, get to know you better, I guess.” He cleared his throat. This was hard to say. “Make amends.”

  “Don’t worry about it, Dad. That’s just the way things go sometimes... between father and daughter.”

  Diane hugged him again, and they just held each other for a time. When she broke the embrace gently, Scarborough found that his eyes had misted over. He wiped an uncharacteristic tear from his eyes.

  When he got hold of himself, he found himself trying to ask the question that had hovered between them the whole time.

  “Diane... when we talked on the phone... you said that you would tell me where you’d been... what happened...”

  “With the Others...”

  “Yes...”

  She sighed. “Dad... Dad, I don’t know how to say this... But when that awful man dragged me off... They wanted to know that as well... And Dad... They gave me some kind of drug... No, I think a lot of drugs. They dragged it out of me; they did terrible things to my mind...”

  “Oh God...”

  “I don’t remember it, Dad. I don’t remember where I was, what I did! But it was positive… I know it was positive... And I think... No, I know that it will come back to me... little by little, eventually.”

  Scarborough looked over at Marsha Manning. Marsha returned the look with a sad shrug.

  “That’s all right, dear. You’re back... That’s the important thing. You’re back... And we can start... healing. We’re safe now. We’ll have lots of time together. Okay?”

  “All right. I’ll try... I’ll try and be a more understanding daughter, Dad.”

  “I’ll try not to be so stubborn. I’ve changed, Diane, I really have. You can’t go through what I have and not change.”

  “We’ll talk about it later. You rest now; you’ve probably talked enough now. I’ll come back and visit tomorrow.”

  �
�That’ll be fine.”

  She bent over and gave him a daughterly kiss on the cheek.

  “Bye, Dad. Take care... I love you.”

  “I love you too, Diane.”

  Diane left, looking a little wistful, a little forlorn.

  “Well, she’s probably right. I’m going to get a doctor in here to have a look at you again, and then you should just rest.”

  “Yes,” said Scarborough. “Rest. That would be fine. Rest.”

  Diane Scarborough left the hospital room, trailing the scent of her perfume like a flower in the middle of a morgue.

  “Okay, Ev. I’m going to go, too. I’ll come back this evening, if you like.”

  “That would be nice... I’m feeling... strange. Disoriented. I could use... somebody.”

  “That’s normal. Maybe the doctor has something that will make you feel better.” She bent over and gave him a soft kiss on the lips. “Should I bring a chess set?”

  “That would be fun... I didn’t know you played.”

  “There’s a lot of things we don’t know about each other, Ev. I’m looking forward to sharing them.”

  She patted his hand, gazed at him lovingly. “Bye.”

  “Bye, Marsha.”

  “And guess what,” she said, backing away. “I love you.”

  “I love you too,” he said.

  She gave him a funny look, then left the room.

  Suddenly, Scarborough felt terribly restless. He felt as though the room were pressing in on him. He desperately needed to get out. Knowing this was unfeasible, he settled for second-best.

  Just a few feet away from him was a window. It was closed. If he could just get to that window, open it... If he could do that, then he could get some fresh air... He would feel better, he just knew it...

  He forced himself to sit up. He felt as though he were moving against something of a steel spring. It was more of a pressure in his chest than a pain, but he felt it nonetheless.

  He needed to get to that window.

  He needed to open it, needed that fresh air, horribly.

  Suddenly, his joints seemed to free up. He found himself able to get to his feet and move. He stood up off the bed and he shuffled over to the window. He pulled aside the drapes and bright sunlight streamed in. He unlatched the window and pushed it open, taking large gulps of the air, warmer than the air-conditioned hospital air, but so much sweeter, so much more alive...

  He was on the fourth floor, it seemed, looking down on the parking lot. Even as he stood there, dragging in large gulps of air, he saw a car pull in and park.

  It was a Cadillac.

  An old, black Cadillac with fins like Siamese twins rising from its rear. As soon as it parked, two men got out.

  One was older, with greying hair. The other was a man in his late twenties or early thirties, athletic-looking. They were too far away to discern their features, and they both wore dark sunglasses.

  And were dressed totally in black, both of them.

  Men in Black.

  Something tapped him on the shoulder. Scarborough started, backing away from the window. The room was darker and his eyes did not adjust. All he saw behind him was a doctor’s coat and blonde hair drawn back severely.

  “You really shouldn’t be out of bed,” said a scolding voice.

  Dr. Julia Cunningham.

  Scarborough gasped. He staggered, feeling his heart hammering like a jackhammer. He slammed against the bed, fell against it.

  The doctor moved toward him and he could immediately see that no, it wasn’t Julia Cunningham.

  It was an older woman, a fine web-work of wrinkles around her eyes.

  “Are you all right, Mr. Scarborough?”

  “Yes... I mean, you just startled me!”

  “I’m so sorry... here, just get into bed. You should rest. I’m, sorry I wasn’t here sooner to tell you that, but I don’t want you out of bed for another couple of days at least.”

  “All right, Doctor,” he said, his mind reeling. “Whatever you say.”

  “I can’t blame you for being so skittish after all that’s happened. But you don’t want to open that wound.”

  “No. No, of course not.”

  “Lay back. Relax, it’s going to be okay,” said the woman. “I brought something here that will do the trick.”

  The woman reached over for a black bag she had placed on a table, pulling something out.

  Scarborough just lay on the bed, trying to make his breathing go back to normal…

  Just a coincidence… Synchronicity... They weren’t Men in Black... They were just two men wearing black clothing. Two normal men, that was all.

  Yes. Yes, everything was fine. He would be okay.

  “My name is Dr. Adamsky, Dr. Scarborough,” said the woman. “And I must say it’s a real honor having you as a patient. I’ve read your books. In fact, believe it or not, I’m a bit of a flying saucer aficionado! Here we go. Something to calm you down!”

  Yes, everything was going to be all right, he told himself.

  Steady on there, Scarborough. Steady on. He looked up at the doctor and she was standing over him, smiling in a wry way. Something cold glistened at the back of her eyes.

  Something alien.

  In her hand she held a syringe, dripping fluid from its needle end. She was swabbing the crook of his elbow with a cotton pad dipped in alcohol.

  “Yes, Mr. Scarborough, you must tell me about those UFOs, hmmm?”

  “I’d be happy to,” he said, peace finally spreading through his tissues. He sighed. Just a doctor... And those men... Just men who happened to be wearing black.

  But regarding the UFO’s ...

  Everett Scarborough wondered now if he truly knew anything for certain.

  Epilogue

  Mitchell Cranston poured himself a large dollop of brandy into the snifter and then sat by the window of his office, staring into the gentle spring night hanging on the boughs of his trees like delicate cloth.

  All in all, he thought, swirling the alcohol about, it had worked out very well. That fool Richards was taking all the blame ... And there would be no testimony from the grave on his behalf. He and his Colleagues were safe again ... safe to weave their webs.

  He took an astringent sip of the delicate, ancient alcohol. It warmed his old bones like a comfortable shawl. He sighed, satisfied. Nothing was better than power, nothing more satisfying.

  He would sleep well tonight. Safe, comfortable, satisfied at a job well done.

  Mitchell Cranston went to a bookshelf of his study, his long, expensive, embroidered silk robe susurrating along the ground as he walked. He selected a volume of Gibbon’s Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire and tucked it under his arm. A little bedtime reading to round out the day. How pleasant, how relaxing, he thought as he moved into the hallway and down the elegant corridor of his estate feeling absolutely complacent, completely smug about the way with which the affair had been dealt.

  Richards had been completely disposable. Indeed, he was a perfect foil, a man who had outlasted his usefulness, just like White Book and Black Book. They had all done their job well enough, they had all served their purposes; and now they were in the dustbin, and operations could move forward into new and more fruitful territory. Ah, the glorious undeclared land of the mass human mind! Terra incognita indeed. Ripe for plunder and conquest. Such an interesting life he had, and such a wonderful world he was bequeathing to his spiritual heirs.

  And the strangers from beyond? They should be kept at bay for as long as possible.

  This planet belonged to him ... And his Colleagues.

  When Mitchell Cranston opened the door to his bedroom and turned on the light, he at first did not notice that he had company.

  Cranston made his usual peregrination to the side of his elegant canopied nineteenth century Austrian bed, placed his book and his brandy on the night table, and then turned down the sheets.

  He took off his slippers from his wrinkled feet, removed his robe,
and turned down the sheets of his bed. He was wearing comfortable blue silk pajamas, and they slid pleasantly into the white silk sheets of the bed. Delightfully cool to the touch, just the way he liked it. No warming by the servants for Mitchell Cranston. Cold was a part of life. How English, how very British, chill sheets were.

  He was just picking up his snifter for another sip of the brandy, when his visitor stepped out of the shadows.

  Cranston could not help but start. But he did manage to keep his hand on the brandy.

  “What are you doing here?” he snapped, his tone firm and stern. “You were supposed to finish the job you botched on Scarborough.”

  “Just a little visit,” said April Hardesty, also known as ‘Emily Elliot.’ From one of her pockets she pulled a silenced automatic handgun. “A small nightcap, Mr. Cranston.”

  “I don’t understand,” said Cranston as calmly as possible. Maybe this was a trick, a joke. This couldn’t be what it seemed! Nonetheless, his voice did quaver a bit. “You were paid. And paid very well ... Why…”

  “Perhaps I was paid even better by ... others,” she said, smiling. “Perhaps this was part of the whole package, hmmm? And then again… perhaps I am not quite who you think I am.”

  “I don’t ... I don’t understand. Look, if it’s money you want, I have plenty more. If it’s just money ... we can make some kind of arrangement. “

  “No, Mr. Cranston. I’m afraid not.” She smiled, and her face seemed suddenly very dark beneath the black wings of her hair. “I’m afraid it’s time for your medicine.”

  From the other pocket, April Hardesty pulled out a full syringe of clear liquid.

  A grim little smile appeared on her face, beautiful no longer.

  Two months later

  Los Angeles, California, is perhaps one of the sleaziest cities in the world, filled with the illusion of beauty, covered with duplicity, stocked with brokers of power who are ultimately inconsequential on a national or worldly scheme of things ... but perhaps important on a less obvious, more cosmic level.

  Sitting at an elegant table at Spago, one of the classiest restaurants in L.A., enjoying a nouvelle California cuisine lunch consisting mostly of salad and mineral water was Lowell Davis, author, being interviewed by Kate Ennis, journalist.