Karen started to feel a bit flustered. "Well, you're the expert, Jeff. Doesn't your 'think tank' have an opinion?"
"Strange you should ask. Yes, as a matter of fact, we do. Our—I need a drum roll here—our official level-one opinion is that all UFO activity, all the way from sightings to abductions, is pure bunk, hoaxes and hallucinations. That goes for close encounters of the first, second, and third kind. All of it. Everything. The whole shootin' match. My open-minded colleagues and I are being paid to reinforce that attitude on the American public every chance we get. How's that for objectivity? We have our conclusion right from the start, all we have to do is assemble the data to prove it. We are traders in swamp gas, Dr. Bradley. We're vendors of hot-air balloons, weather satellites, and sunspots. I'm one of a proud army of professional debunkers, dauntless soldiers in the U.S. government's war on truth, reason, and honesty."
"Oh, I'm beginning to see now." Karen leaned forward, as if she were conspiring with him. "You've researched it enough that you're starting to believe there's something to these UFO stories, right?" She narrowed her eyes. "You're starting to believe in them, aren't you?"
"There you go, playing shrink again. Well, Doctor, you got me. You're absolutely right. I do believe."
"The skeptic becomes a believer. And right before my eyes! Wow!"
"It's the wine. It loosens my tongue."
Now it was Karen's turn to lean back in her chair and raise her wineglass. "Then we'd better order another bottle, 'cause I'm curious as hell. I want you to tell me all about this."
"You're getting me drunk and plying me for top-secret information."
"Guilty as charged. Now, Dr. Jeffrey Chandler, let's come directly to the point. I've never talked to anybody professionally involved in the UFO business. Suppose you try to convince me. Suppose you tell me what you, personally, consider the strongest, most convincing case of a UFO."
For a few moments Jeff thought in silence while Karen stared at him, smiling patiently. All his frivolity disappeared, his joking stopped. When he finally spoke, he was completely serious. "It is a comparatively recent sighting. And one that was heavily witnessed and thoroughly investigated. What would you say about a sighting witnessed by an estimated seventy thousand people?"
"Seventy thousand!" Karen raised her eyebrows. "I'd say it was pretty convincing."
"Sure, so would I. Among the seventy thousand witnesses there were scientists, newsmen, film people. There were politicians. Doctors. Religious leaders. In fact, a broad sampling of the population, from all over the world. And I'm talking about credible witnesses, mind you. People whose testimony would be readily believed in a court of law. People whose word, under oath, could send a criminal to jail, even to the electric chair."
Karen held her eyes on his. He was talking directly to her, with no hint of humor in his voice. "If thousands of people really witnessed this UFO," she said, "then it would be big news. Is the government hushing it up or something? How come I've never heard anything about it?'
"I bet you have. It took place at about noon on October thirteenth of 1917 in a little town in Portugal, a town called Fatima."
Karen tensed. Her cheeks became hot. She felt as if she were being set up, tricked. "You're talking about the miracle of Fatima! The appearance of the Virgin Mary to those three little kids! That's not a UFO sighting—"
"No? Think about it. Sure, now it's viewed as a miracle. And we're in the habit of thinking of it as a religious experience. But that's mostly because the visions were first seen and interpreted by three Portuguese children whose strong Catholic upbringing was their only frame of reference. Today, when we read about the strange goings on at Fatima, the events continue to be colored by a Catholic perspective. But consider what really took place there. The children saw a lady who was described as having an angular face, long fingers, and a vaguely oriental cast to her features: these are the classic features of many so-called UFO occupants. Evidently our mystery woman's appearance was sufficiently otherworldly so the little Catholic kids thought they were seeing the Virgin.
"Most of the seventy thousand witnesses who assembled in that field called Cova da Iria in Fatima saw a large pearly disk come spinning down through the clouds. They thought the sun was falling. It was raining that day, but the disk was radiating so much heat that people's clothing dried instantly. It was that same radiation—infrared, I suppose—that cured ailing people with diseases like arthritis, and—"
"So what appeared? What did they see?"
"That depends. The people who were at a great distance saw only a ball of light. The people who were closest to the light had the richest images and experiences. If they were of one religious persuasion, they'd see Joseph, or an angel, or whatever. If they were of another persuasion, they'd see Jesus, or Mary, or—"
"Didn't anyone take pictures?"
"Sure. Lots of movie and still photographers were on the scene, but by and large cameras only recorded a ball of light. Later, many but not all of the photographs and movies were collected by the Catholic Church during an investigation some thirteen years after the fact. Man, I'd love to see that stuff, wouldn't you? I guess it's all stashed away in some vault deep within the bowels of the Vatican. I know they've never released it. They're more into secrecy than any government."
Karen listened attentively, her sense of fascination growing rapidly. "Wasn't there something about a prediction?" she asked. "I seem to recall—"
"That's right. This mysterious lady—whoever she was—told the children many things. She foretold the end of the war, and—in its own way a little more scary—she predicted that two of the children would die soon. And they did. Weird, huh? But supposedly there was a written prediction. I bet that's the one you're thinking of. It was sealed in an envelope and locked up in some safe in the Vatican."
"What did it say?"
Jeff shrugged. "I really don't know. In 1960, Pope John XXIII opened the prophesy, but then, for some reason, he chose not to make it public."
"Gee," said Karen, "censoring the word of God. Why would he do that? What do you suppose it said?"
"I have no idea. To explain the pope's behavior, I suspect the prediction relates to one of three general areas: first, it might have been a prediction about the end of the world, with zero hope of redemption. That kind of news would do very little to promote the domestic tranquility."
"And second . . ."
"The envelope's contents may somehow have suggested that the miracle at Fatima was a hoax, or a mistake, or something other than what it appeared to be. Discovering their miracle was some cosmic April Fools' joke would be bad news for the Catholic Church. Especially after they—in their infinite wisdom—had gone through all the trouble and expense of investigating the event and granting it miracle status. You know how those Catholics hate to admit it when they're wrong about something . . ."
"And third?"
"Third?" Jeff took the last sip of his wine, and tried to pour more from the empty bottle. "Third is a tough one to figure. There just might have been something written in that envelope that would negate, or redefine, every religious concept that we as a race have embraced for the last two thousand or more years. In fact, there might have been something that would change our whole concept of reality."'
The Secret Birthday Wish
St. Albans, Vermont
It was Edmund Washburn's birthday, but he was too tired to celebrate. All day, as his fatigue grew, he became more and more convinced something was about to go wrong.
Now, driving home from work, he wondered what "something" would be.
Hope Lucy's okay, he thought. She was his biggest concern. Worrying about his daughter was one thing, but with this multiple personality business, it was like worrying about half a dozen daughters. Anything could happen. Anytime.
Ah, he was just tired. By morning the whole world would look better. Good thing he and Winnie had had the foresight to put off the party until tomorrow. They'd be able to have more fun on Sat
urday, when he was well rested. Maybe they could take the kids to a matinee or something.
It was about eight-thirty—just as the brilliant red sun began to sink behind the Adirondack Mountains beyond Lake Champlain's western shore—that Ed pulled his pickup truck into the driveway of his home.
He noticed that his wife's Buick was in the dooryard. Good, that meant she was here. So why hadn't she answered when he phoned to tell her he'd be working late?
The next thing he noticed was that the wide interior shade was drawn behind the big picture window he'd installed last spring. Funny.
At this time of day, Winnie always liked to sit in her recliner, watching the sunset or listening to the songbirds that hopped from fence to lilac bush.
Ed slammed the door to his pickup. The hinges resisted a little so he made a mental note to put a couple drops of WD-40 to them pretty quick.
Halfway up the front walk he stopped and looked around the yard. Where were the kids?
Usually, neither of them was difficult to spot. Most days Randy would be grinning from the porch, holding the screen door wide open as an invitation to Dad and to hordes of flies and mosquitoes the boy just couldn't seem to become aware of. But the screen door was closed. And so was the heavy door behind it.
Odd.
Ed still had his key ring in his hand. The collection of keys jingled like Christmas bells as he separated his house key from the rest.
As he turned the key in the lock, he figured the three of them had gone over to Winnie's mom's place. Of course. She'd probably picked them up in the Ford.
But why?
As he pushed the door open into the dark interior of the house, the first thing he noticed was the absence of cooking smells. During their fifteen years of marriage, Winnie always had supper waiting for him when he got home from work. Even on days like today when he worked overtime.
On those rare occasions when she was away at supper time, she'd unfailingly leave something hot in the toaster oven for him.
Damn it, she should be here. He was grateful for the extra work and by God she should be, too. These weren't easy times, and his overtime pay would be a help to the family.
Lots of new buildings were being put up along the lakeshore. Vermonters weren't buying them; Vermonters couldn't afford them. It was new residents—born-again Vermonters, Ed called them—and out-of-staters wanting second homes who were footing the construction bills. Luckily for Ed, every new house and condo complex wanted cable TV. So today's workload was nothing new; installing the lines often kept Ed Washburn from getting home on time.
So where is she?
He had to reach around the door frame and flick on the living-room lights because all the interior shades had been pulled and the house was dark.
Strange.
Why wasn't Winnie right there to reward his extra work? When you got right down to it, she should have made something a bit special; after all, not only was it a Friday night, it was his birthday!
He'd worked overtime every day this week, and he'd get another half day tomorrow. Time and a half meant he'd be earning $13.50 an hour before deductions. You'd think she'd be proud of that. Least she could do was have a hot meal ready the minute he walked in the door. She should realize he'd be hungry and tired after such a long day.
Jeez, she hadn't even left a christly light on for him!
Damn woman, he thought, doesn't give a fart how hard I work; probably thinks I'm made of money the way she spends it out fast as I bring it in.
No. That wasn't fair. Winnie wasn't like that. In addition to tired and hungry. Ed realized he was grumpy, too.
Now he was more convinced something might be wrong. Maybe she'd left him a note somewhere.
As Ed walked through the living room he saw the school portraits of his two kids smiling at him from the top of the television set. Randy, looking like a toothless pixie; Lucy, starting to look a bit . . . well. womanly, in spite of the silver line of her braces.
Entering the kitchen, he flicked on the light. The blue-painted plywood cabinets reminded him how Winnie had been stashing money to replace them with oak. She'd put away a pretty fair nest egg before Lucy's "trouble" began. Then the money had depleted so fast Ed didn't even see it go.
The therapy sessions had started at just one a week, and that wasn't too bad; the doctor's fee was covered by Ed's insurance. Then the number of sessions increased to two a week, then three. And pretty soon the insurance allowance was used up. Now the therapy was all coming out of his own pocket.
Still, he had to be fair. Winnie had offered to take a part-time job as a clerk at the Ben Franklin Store; he had to give her credit for that. But her taking a job wasn't right. No wife of mine's goin' out to work, he'd told her. He'd have no part of it. Providing for the family was a man's job, simple as that.
But with three therapy sessions a week—Ed pulled a Bud out of the refrigerator—why that was $180 a week that went straight out of his paycheck and into the pocket of that female doctor—what's her name?—Karen Bradley.
Ed extracted two pieces of salami from the white waxed-paper packet, rolled them into the shape of a cigar, and bit off about an inch.
That lady doctor was okay, though, he had to admit it. She was doing all she could to get rid of Lucy's "trouble." She had even offered to give them every third session for free. But Ed would have no part of that, either. "I pay, same's I expect to get paid," he had told her.
If he had to work, then by God he'd work. Lots of families had troubles far worse than his. But $180 every week required an awful lot of overtime. And when the overtime stopped, he'd have to take a second job. Good thing they'd bought the house back when they did; mortgage payments were only $257 a month. But as the area around them got more developed, taxes kept right on going up and up . . . .
Ed opened the back door and looked out at the yard. No one there, either.
"Randy! Lucy!"
The tire swing he'd put up for the kids was unoccupied. It moved ever so slowly in the breeze, like a pocket watch dangling on a long chain.
The four Adirondack chairs he'd made last summer—one for each of them—were similarly vacant. Too bad he'd never built that picnic table he'd promised the kids. It was to have been Randy's first lesson in carpentry. Instead, he'd had to sell his table saw before he got around to making anything else. Next, he feared, he'd have to start selling off his guns.
Ed put the empty beer bottle into the space between the counter and refrigerator where they kept shopping bags and empties. Chewing the last of the salami, he walked to the cellar door, opened it, and looked down. "Hey, Winnie, you down there?" But of course she wasn't; the cellar light wasn't on.
"Winnie! Kids! Where the hell is everybody?"
Sure enough, they must have gone off with Winnie's mother. Okay, so where was the note? Least they coulda done was leave a note.
No sir, this wasn't like Winnie at all. Somehow, Ed knew things weren't going to be that simple.
"Winnie!"
God! What if one of the kids was hurt? What if an ambulance had taken everyone to the hospital in Burlington?
"Aw, shit . . ." Ed smacked his forehead with his palm. He chuckled happily. They're hidin' on me. A'course. Pretty quick they're gonna jump out from someplace yell, "Happy Birthday!"
The front door slammed shut.
Ed jumped. Almost cried out. His heart pounded.
The living-room light flicked off.
"Winn, zat you?"
The kitchen light went out automatically the moment he stepped across the threshold and into the living room. What's going on with the friggin' lights around here? Can't be a circuit breaker, both lights would've gone out at once.
"Edmund." It was Winnie's voice, coming from the direction of their bedroom. "Edmund," she sounded funny.
"You're lucky, Edmund. You're so very, very fortunate."
Lucky? What was she talking about? Why did her voice sound so dry and scratchy? Was she sick or something?
&n
bsp; He moved toward the hall that led to the bedroom just as Winnie stepped into view. In the darkness her appearance was strange. It was as if she were somehow darker than the shadows in which she stood.
Ed stepped toward her, squinting. She appeared to be dressed in some sort of transparent, filmy outfit. She was naked beneath it. He smiled, taking another step forward. So this was his birthday present! She looked good, too. Her waist was still thin, her thighs were tight, and her tits could still turn a lot of heads.
Smiling, Ed stopped when he realized he wasn't seeing things exactly right. She wasn't dressed in some provocative negligee. Instead, she seemed to be wrapped in an opaque veil of black swirling smoke. It was a form-fitting cocoon of mist that flowed over her body like the glaze of water in a shower.
That's what it looked like, anyway, and that was impossible. He stopped, unbelieving, tried to blink away the dream image. Her voice grew stranger now: windy-sounding, hollow, and distant.
Was she trying to sound sexy or something? "Your great good fortune is to be envied, Edmund my love . . . ."
Beneath the cloak of flowing shifting vapor, Ed could see her heavy breasts swaying as she shifted her weight from one foot to the other. The vertical scar from her C-section seemed to glow, pulsing with an unearthly ruby light. Her beautiful red thigh-length hair was tightly braided. Draped over her shoulder, it hung like a crimson cable that dropped almost to her pubic thatch.
"W-what's going on here, Winnie? What's wrong with you? How come you're runnin' around naked like that? Where's the kids?"
She continued as if he hadn't spoken. "All your worries are as memories far, far behind you. Your future is bright, a clearly lighted path—"
"What are you talking about, Winnie? What's happened to you?" He wondered if Lucy's craziness could be contagious; could Winnie have caught a dose of it like some sort of mental influenza?
The Reality Conspiracy Page 7