Journal of a UFO Investigator

by David Halperin

  He was Tom Dimitrios.

  I blinked several times. I forced myself not to turn away.

  “Looks to be a fella about your age, doesn’t he?” said Pockface. “Only looks like maybe he could see without his glasses.”

  I said nothing.

  “They found him first thing this morning, soon as the sun came up,” said Corky. “The car was parked to the side of a road, two miles outside Roswell town limits. He was in it. Recognize what kind of car it is, Danny?”

  I shook my head.

  “A 1963 Plymouth Valiant,” said Corky. “Same car this Perlmann rented in Albuquerque three weeks ago.”

  “He was smothered to death,” said Pockface. “With a pillow, looks like. They must have gone out on the road, took a pillow with them. So they could fuck better. She must have killed him afterward. Then she walked back into town, or maybe somebody come pick her up. Took the pillow with her. It wasn’t in the car.”

  I stared dully. The crack in the lens felt like it had always been there. Desolation blew through me like a desert wind. Of all the things I wished had not happened, I wished most of all I hadn’t seen that photograph.

  “How do you know?” I said.

  “How do I know what?” said Pockface.

  “That she was the one who killed him.”

  “That’s what happens, Danny. It’s the black widow spider. First she fucks, then she kills.”

  “How could she have held him down? Look at that picture. He knew what was happening. He would have fought her off.”

  “It was the fuck,” Snaggletooth said solemnly. “She gave him such a blowout fuck that all his strength went out through that fuck. Then she took the pillow and killed him.”

  “He would have fought her off,” I said.

  But I remembered how firm and strong Rochelle’s handshake had been the night we met, how weak and flaccid Tom’s was.

  “She didn’t kill him,” I said.

  “How you know that?” said Pockface. “You don’t even know her.”

  “Wouldn’t know what to do with her if he did know her,” said Corky.

  I looked from one to another of the three laughing faces. Some broad, some narrow. All of them stained that strange artificial brown. Stupid beyond stupidity.

  “You don’t know her either,” I said.

  The three of them rested against the desk. They looked at me with what seemed to be curiosity.

  “She didn’t kill him,” I said. “You killed him. You and your goddamn creepy friends. How do I know you didn’t?”

  I wanted to gesture, point a finger, accuse them. My hands were still behind my back, tied tight with their wire. Corky sighed and walked around behind me. My stomach fell away in terror. I realized how very stupid I had just been.

  “That’s a real good question,” said Pockface softly. “And I’m gonna answer it for you. It wasn’t one of us killed him, because if we’d have killed him, we wouldn’t have done it with a pillow. We’d have used the wire. Around the neck. That’s if we were in a hurry. If we had time, maybe around the nuts first, then the neck. Allow us to give you a small demonstration.”

  “No. Please.”

  “Don’t mention it,” said Pockface. “No trouble at all.”

  I felt Corky slowly put the wire around my throat, begin twisting it, tightening it.

  “No,” I said. “No, no, no.”

  “Don’t worry,” said Pockface. “We’re not gonna hurt you. Not too much. Not this time.”

  The wire tightened more.

  “Danny,” said Pockface. “Lots of people talk bad about the Jewish. You know that, don’t you? Don’t you?”

  I tried to breathe an answer. The wire was too tight. All I could manage was a feeble nod.

  “But there’s one thing I got to say about them. Their families are real close. And that’s a good thing about them. This country’d be a better place if the rest of us were like the Jewish. That way.”

  He paused. I could say nothing.

  “Especially Jewish boys. They love their families. Isn’t that right?”

  Another nod, barely perceptible.

  “Do you love your family?”

  I could not speak, could not move. The wire tightened again. I felt it slice into my flesh. I imagined the blood spurting from my throat. Images of red swam before my eyes.

  “Do you, Danny? Do you love your family?”

  “Yes, yes,” I whispered.

  “Say it.”

  “I love my family.”

  “That’s right,” said Pockface. Snaggletooth nodded solemnly. The wire loosened slightly.

  “You love your family,” said Pockface, “you ain’t never going to talk about what happened here tonight. Isn’t that right?”

  “Yes,” I said. “I’m never going to talk about it.”

  “You’re not going to say a word about Roswell either, are you?”

  “No. I promise. I won’t say a word about Roswell, ever.”

  “ ’Cause you know, Danny boy, we can find you now. Whenever we want. Wherever you go, we’ll find you.”

  Corky began to untie my wrists.

  “Say one word,” said Pockface, “you’re up shit creek.”

  “On my honor,” I said. “I won’t say a word.”

  I stood up, shakily. Pockface put his arm around my shoulders and drew me aside.

  “Danny,” he said. “I got a real special feeling for you. Just like you were my son. Know what I mean?”

  I nodded.

  “And I got a word of advice for you. Just like a dad for a son. You listening?”

  “Yes,” I said. “I am.”

  “Don’t steal no more suitcases. You want to try on girls’ underwear, take your sister’s. Have you got a sister?”

  “No,” I said, “I don’t.”

  “Well, then you gotta have a mother. Don’t you?”

  “Yes, but—I mean, she’s sick, she’s always been sick—”

  “Then maybe you got a grandma. Ask her, she’ll buy you some girls’ underwear to try on. Have you got a grandma?”

  “Yes,” I said. “I’ve got a grandma.”

  “Good. You ask her. But don’t go stealing any more suitcases. You promise me that?”

  “I promise,” I said.

  “Good. Real good. And one more thing. You keep away from broads like this Rochelle Perlmann. Broad packs rubbers in her suitcase, she’s nothing but trouble. Remember that.”

  “I’ll remember,” I said.

  He took me by the shoulders, looked into my eyes, and smiled down at me. He began to sing, softly, with just a hint of an Irish accent. “Oh, Danny boy, the pipes, the pipes are calling....”

  I smiled back. I felt like I wanted to cry.

  “Take care of yourself, Danny boy,” he said, gently slapping me on the back . . . and then I was out of the room, into the long white corridor.

  They had my wallet. I didn’t care about that. I had taken the book from their desk; I had it safe in my hand. Only it wasn’t The Book of the Damned that I carried, but The Case for the UFO, with all the Gypsies’ markings.... From the room behind me, laughter erupted.

  “Hey, Danny boy!”

  I began to walk faster.

  “Danny! You got the wrong book!”

  Should I start running? If I run, I might be able to get away. But then they’ ll know that I know—

  “Danny ! You come back here!”

  I ran.

  CHAPTER 16

  NOT CLEAR HOW LONG. THE CORRIDORS WERE ENDLESS, WHITE, empty; I don’t know how many corners I turned. None led anywhere. I heard the men running after me. At other times I couldn’t hear anything but the sound of my own footsteps, echoing around me through the hallways.

  It might have been days and nights. Weeks, months, years. Once, I remember, I hid in a bathroom.

  I hurried into a stall and climbed onto a toilet. There I crouched, my feet on opposite rims of the toilet bowl, my back against the wall, my head low eno
ugh it couldn’t be seen over the stall partitions. It was all I could do to keep from slipping into the toilet. The men came into the bathroom. They looked into one of the stalls, but not mine. I held my breath.

  “He’s in here,” I heard Snaggletooth say.

  “No, he isn’t,” said Pockface.

  “Shit,” said Corky. “He’s probably in the girls’ room.”

  This was the girls’ room I was in. Or rather the ladies’ room. I suppose they were too stupid to realize that. They all burst out laughing at Corky’s remark. They were still laughing when they closed the bathroom door behind them and went off down the hall. It may have been days and nights before I dared to move.

  I could not get out of my head that Julian and Rochelle must be somewhere in those corridors, looking for me. They weren’t. Neither was anyone else. Even the ticket counters, when I finally found my way back to them, were deserted.

  I walked now. I didn’t have the strength to run. Slowly I drifted toward the terminal doors, wondering how I was going to get back to the hotel. Or anywhere. Even if there were a cab outside, it wouldn’t help. The three men had my wallet. They also, I remembered, had the address of our hotel.

  “There he is!”

  Terror gave me second wind. I tore out through the doors, into the thick humidity of the night. I began running down the curb. Several hundred yards down, a car was parked. The trunk was open. A man and a girl stood beside it, unloading suitcases onto the curb.

  “Dad,” the girl was saying, “it’s no problem. There’ll be taxis at the airport. I can take one straight to the dorm.”

  “You won’t take a taxi,” the man said loudly. He was bald and stocky, his sport shirt open in the heat. “You’ll call Aunt Olga. She knows you’re coming, she’ll be expecting you. And you won’t stay in the dorm either. You’ll spend the night with Max and Olga.”

  “But, Dad, the plane won’t get in till two in the morning.”

  The motor was idling. The key was in the ignition. I stood by the driver’s side, my fingers on the door handle. The man didn’t see me. The girl did. For a second our eyes connected. She may have nodded. She reached up and slammed the trunk shut. I jumped into the car.

  My left foot groped for the clutch. There wasn’t any. I turned cold, then recovered myself. Automatic transmission. The letters on the dial by the gearshift glowed in the dark. I guessed that D stood for Drive. I shifted into it, then went down hard on the gas pedal. The car lurched away.

  “He’s stealing my car!” the man yelled.

  I heard the shots. I felt, as much as heard, the rear window explode behind me. Then came the blinding pain as the glass drove into my neck. I cried out, and for a second I closed my eyes. I almost let go of the wheel. The car almost went off the road.

  But it didn’t.

  I tore through stop signs and red lights. Late; hardly any traffic. I tried to remember how to get back to the hotel, until I remembered I couldn’t go back to the hotel. Sooner or later they’d be there looking for me. I hoped wherever Julian was, he wasn’t there.

  After a while there weren’t any more traffic lights. No streetlights either. The road became a dark two lane, at first with a broken white stripe down its middle. Every few minutes I felt around the seat next to me to make sure The Case for the UFO was still there. Twinges of pain shot up the back of my neck. Once I reached back there to touch it. My fingers came away bloodied, the pain so dizzying I nearly lost control.

  Headlights in the rearview mirror, tiny in the distance. I jammed my foot on the accelerator; the needle went past seventy, then eighty. With damp, inexpert hands I clutched the wheel. The road, though not very wide, was even and straight. Thank the Lord. Julian had told me to expect that of the Florida roads.

  Julian. Where have you got yourself to?

  And Rosa—Rochelle?

  Tears of loss, mingling with sweat, trickled down my face.

  The headlights were gone. Alone once more. I slowed to sixty and glanced toward the gas gauge: quarter of a tank. Soon I’d need to find a town.

  There had to be a map somewhere in this car. But I didn’t dare stop to look for it, and besides, there was no place to pull over. Vegetation, thick and wild, crowded the edges of the road. Through its gaps I spotted something shining red, low in the sky at two o’clock my position, which I took to be the just risen moon.

  So I was driving east or northeast? Made no sense. I ought to be in the ocean by now.

  I couldn’t remember when I’d last passed a road sign. I switched on the radio, pushed all its buttons, twisted the knob up to the highest frequency and down to the lowest. I did that twice more. Craving not just some clue to where I was, but the sound of a human voice, some human music. Nothing; just the roaring hiss of static. Which also didn’t make sense. I couldn’t have gotten so far from the city so fast.

  I gave up, turned it off. The only sounds were the tires tearing down the now unmarked highway, much faster than I wanted to go; the tropical air from the opened window blew on my face. The reddish glow had disappeared. The moon must have climbed into the black sky, hidden now behind thick clouds. There were no stars. Only my headlights poked, feebly, into the humid darkness.

  Needed to pee; nowhere to stop. After some struggle I let go. I dozed in the brief comfort of the warm wetness.

  —I’m with my father, the two of us kneeling before a window, his hand on my shoulder, gazing together into a rainy street. Headlights glare off the wet asphalt—

  A dream? A memory? But of what?

  Must have been a dream ... and I snapped awake to see in the mirror a pair of headlights, huge and blinding, barreling up behind me.

  I screamed, whether from the terror of the dream—which I’d felt to be deeply frightening, I didn’t know why—or from this thing coming up from behind as if to ram me. My foot had slipped off the gas; I was hardly moving. I floored it but couldn’t pick up speed fast enough. Just ahead the road forked, curving to the left, a sharp turn to the right. I hooked to the right, screamed again as the wheels beneath me lifted from the road. Almost wept as they slammed down once more.

  The other car careened off to the left and was gone. Honking? With a shouted curse? Something like a beer bottle thrown out the window in my direction? I hoped so. But I couldn’t be sure. I kept my foot heavy on the accelerator, even as the narrow, pothole-filled road began to twist and turn, for some reason I couldn’t imagine. Even as I pushed my idle left foot hard against the floor, to keep myself awake.

  The gauge hovered a tick above empty. I bounced, almost flew, over unpaved stretches. I kept away from the road’s crumbling edge. Peculiar vegetation on both sides hemmed me in. Bushes, it seemed, tall as palm trees yet covered top to bottom with broad, thick leaves. Had this last turn carried me into the Everglades? Surely it was buggy as a swamp, the windshield covered with their bodies. I turned on the wipers, a mistake. All they did was smear insect slime over the glass.

  I looked at the gas gauge. Empty. Yet the car kept moving.

  What were these trees?

  And what were the pairs of gleaming slitlike ovals that appeared every so often beside the road, eight or ten feet above the ground? The eyes of unseen animals, crouching amid the dark branches?

  But how would animals’ eyes have shone like that?

  Farther away, off to my right: the red glow once more. Larger now, and brighter; but still close to the ground, and I knew it couldn’t be the moon. While I pondered what it could be, what I already knew it must be, the engine coughed. The speedometer needle slid to zero.

  The car plowed into a bushy thicket, a foot or two off the road, before stopping. Without gas I’d have to spend the night here, in the morning try to hitchhike. I left the lights on, so nobody’d come crashing into me by mistake. I thought it over, turned them off. There were worse things than accidents.

  Two luminous slits, each swelling in the middle and tapering to points at the ends, hung in the air directly in front of me, some twent
y feet away. Farther apart than any animal’s eyes could be.

  Hot as it was, I rolled up the window. Made sure both doors were locked. I slid over to the passenger side, bumping into The Case for the UFO, which I’d forgotten was there, and hunted in vain through the glove compartment for a flashlight. I turned on the radio, was greeted by a burst of static so earsplitting I switched it off. Through the fragments of what had been the rear windshield, mosquitoes swarmed. I tried to keep them away from my neck, let them feed as they liked on the rest of me.

  Somewhere on my right the red glow dimmed slightly. Brightened. Dimmed. Brightened.

  A car sped by. Down the road brakes squealed, doors slammed. I pushed open my right-hand door, grabbed The Case for the UFO, jumped from the car into the bushes. Crashed through the foliage, down an embankment, toward the red shining. From the road I heard running footsteps, then the doors to my car opening, closing.

  “He’s gone!”

  Pockface’s voice. The bushes thinned; I ran faster. Some animal, very close to me, gave out a loud ululating howl. “This way!” Pockface shouted, and I heard the crackle of branches as they pushed their way through.

  Before me, a large clearing sloped down and away. At the bottom of the slope, resting on the ground, a huge disk, glowing fluorescent red. Last seen nine months earlier, a few yards from my home. Tumbling on me from the sky.

  Just like then, a buzzing sensation, a tingling in my feet. Not holding me still; tugging me, rather, toward the disk. Yet I stopped. I resisted. “Promise me you won’t get inside,” Rosa had said. She’d known what was waiting. For that one moment the three men seemed inconsequential.

  They leaped from the bushes, began shooting.

  “Aim for the legs!”

  My feet ran. I ran with them.

  Any second I would feel the pain, the crippling. I would topple helplessly into the thick, tall grass. The disk would vanish like the mirage it had to have been. Instead it grew larger, more solid. As wide across, maybe, as three automobiles laid end to end. Silent, though somehow alive. At its top a dome-like protuberance pulsated. Along the rim a low dark oval, like an egg laid on its side.