by Joan Hess
“Like Marjorie rolling in the corn?” said Ruby Bee as she turned around like she was going back to the kitchen. She wasn’t, naturally, because she was curious about what Estelle was gonna say next.
“If you were to close up early—say, at ten—we could walk up there, cut around the opposite side of the cabin, and slip into the barn. Then we could keep watch out the knotholes in case—” Estelle stopped and shivered like a wet dog.
“What if Raz catches us?”
“What if flying saucers come floating across the cornfield?”
Ruby Bee had to admit Estelle had an interesting, if half-baked, point.
FOUR
Raz grinned as more folks came up the road. His pockets were already stuffed with dollar bills, and in the shack was a whole jarful. Marjorie weren’t very happy about all the ruckus, but Raz figgered as long as he kept her locked inside, she wouldn’t git riled enough to draw blood.
He held out a gnarled hand. “Two dollars from each of you iffen you want to come into the yard.”
Cynthia Dodder glanced in horror at her companions, then stepped forward. “Don’t be ridiculous. This is Arthur Sageman, director of the ETH Research Foundation in Los Angeles, and his secretary, Brian Quint. Ms. Tant and I represent UFORIA. We are here to conduct a thorough investigation into the configurations in order to—”
“Two dollars from each of you iffen you want to come into the yard.” Raz spit into the dust, careful to miss her shoe. “And ten dollars fer takin’ pictures. Otherwise, you kin hike your tails.”
He collected the fee from the young feller and opened the gate. Before they was out of sight, a girl about as skinny as a poker appeared, her cheeks flushed from the walk and her voice all chirpy. She was a purty little thing, so he let her in for a dollar. The man that came on her heels forked over ten dollars like they was burning a hole in his pocket and asked if Raz would pose for a picture and tell about finding the circles. After some dickering, they settled on twenty-five dollars for what the man called “an exclusive” the next morning. He seemed right tickled when Raz insisted Marjorie be in the picture.
Raz didn’t charge Dahlia on account of her bein’ a neighbor and having her driveway blocked for two days running, and he let Earl and Eilene in cheap ’cause they were kinfolk. His goodwill dried up when Mrs. Jim Bob pranced up to the gate like she was something on a stick and started carryin’ on about how aliens were heathens and bringing their depravities to Maggody in hopes of corrupting folks. He held his ground until she thrust two dollars at him and walked past him with her nose stuck up so high she was in danger of drownin’ in a rainstorm.
It was beginning to get dark. Raz wasn’t sure why folks were still coming, but they were. As soon as there was a break, he figgered he could go inside and see about changin’ channels for Marjorie. She felt strongly about LA Law.
Over on the far side of the county Sheriff Harve Dorfer was working a cold cigar butt from one corner of his mouth to the other as he looked down at the carcass. “Seen any coyotes in these parts, Aldus?”
“Not in over a year. Besides, any fool can see she wasn’t taken down by a damn coyote. She was cut, not gnawed. When did a coyote ever pull a flap of skin off a heifer’s belly like it was a banana peel? There ain’t a single drop of blood in sight.” Aldus, who was not a Buchanon (and once had threatened a niece with bodily harm for dating one), walked over to his truck and took out a shovel. “Guess I better bury it before it gets dark. The rest of the herd’s so damn spooked they won’t come into this part of the pasture.”
“Did you see any unfamiliar cars or trucks out on the road last night?”
“No, can’t say I did. Then again, me and the missus went over to Maggody after supper to see the corn circles for ourselves. What do you make of ’em, Harve?”
“I’ll tell you after Arly gets a report from the county extension office. Lemme take some pictures of the heifer before you bury it, Aldus. It won’t do any good, but I suppose I’d better start a file. This is the third one in two weeks.”
“That so? You think there’s something funny going on in Stump County?”
Harve flipped the cigar butt into the tall grass. “Yeah, Aldus, I think there’s something funny going on in Stump County. I just wish to hell I knew what it was.”
Darla Jean Mcllhaney wished she were home in her own room, or hanging out at the Dairee Dee-Lishus, or even baby-sitting for her bratty little cousins. Heck, she’d have preferred to be at a tent revival than parked on this shadowy back road with Reggie Pellitory. She and Reggie had been going together for more than two weeks, and she knew they were getting to the critical point when she either had to prove her love or risk losing him to Bethany Pickerell, who salivated every time she waylaid Reggie in the hall.
Reggie slammed the trunk and came around to her door, holding a cooler in one hand and a rolled-up blanket in the other. “Why’re you still sitting there?”
“I told you what Mrs. Jim Bob said to my ma about how Brother Verber is gonna start trying to catch kids down by the creek. They thought it was real funny, but they were in the kitchen having coffee and cookies. I don’t reckon my ma will laugh if she hears my name said in church come Sunday morning.”
“Fer chrissake,” Reggie said as he put down the cooler so he could open her door, “the only thing he’s gonna catch is a cold. How’s he gonna know to come to this exact spot? I told you when you got in the car that I was coming here to drink beer. You’re the one that said you wanted to come with me. Quit your whining, and let’s go.”
Darla Jean got out of the car and followed him down an overgrown path. “You better be right about this, Reggie,” she began, then stopped when a branch caught her square in the face. She was still picking fuzzy things out of her hair when Reggie put down the cooler, unrolled and spread out the blanket, and sat down right in the middle.
“How ’bout opening me a beer?” he said.
“Hush, Reggie! I hear voices.”
“Yeah, you do, seeing as how we’re directly across Boone Creek from Raz Buchanon’s place. I’ll bet half the town’s standing around his yard gawking at those circles. You wouldn’t believe the number of people that came by the SuperSaver today to git directions.” He patted the blanket. “Just fetch me a beer and sit down, honey. This way we can watch for flying saucers without paying any money to that asshole. Did you see the new issue of the Weekly Examiner? There’s a story about how aliens kidnapped this housewife in Kansas and took her up to their ship to perform sexual experiments on her. Whatta ya say we try some ourselves?”
The only experiment Darla Jean was interested in was finding out if she could wish hard enough to make herself disappear right then and there. She didn’t care where she reappeared, as long as she went someplace that wasn’t across the creek from all sorts of folks—including her ma and pa, who’d mentioned going there after supper.
“I don’t know, Reggie,” she said, frowning at the flickery lights behind the undergrowth. “I’m still afraid of gettin’ caught by Brother Verber.”
He got to his feet and went over to pull her against him so she could feel the telltale bulge in his britches and realize he wasn’t just whistlin’ “Dixie.” Nibbling her neck for good measure, he said, “There’s another reason why we don’t have to worry about. Me and some of the boys went up to the Missouri line one night last week after work. There’s a place that sells fireworks all year round, even the illegal ones. We bought us a whole box of cherry bombs and divvied them up when we got back.”
“But you didn’t know about Brother Verber until tonight, did you?”
“Are you gonna ask questions all night?”
Darla Jean’s resistance was eroding, but she wasn’t quite ready to fling herself onto the blanket. “What are the cherry bombs for?”
“Brother Verber’s not exactly a commando. If we hear him stumbling and thrashing through the brush, this little ol’ cherry bomb’ll scare the holy shit out of him. You and me will be at
the Dairee Dee-Lishus before he can twitch a toe.” Reggie took an innocuous-looking round object from his pocket. “See? I’ll put it right next to the cooler.”
Pretty soon Darla Jean found herself in a good-natured tussling match, trying to keep Reggie’s hands away from her zipper and buttons without making him mad. He didn’t seem to pay much mind to her whispered protests, and to be honest, she would have been a sight more resolute if he hadn’t kept swearing that he loved her, and to prove it, he’d bought the most expensive condom at the SuperSaver. Darla Jean thought that was real sweet. After a few more perfunctory protests so he’d know she wasn’t a slut like Bethany Pickerell, she helped him unhook her bra.
They’d rounded third base and were heading for home when he sat up and growled, “Fuck! Do you hear something?”
“Why, Hayden, I had no idea you were coming,” Arthur Sageman said with a thin smile. “I hope you had a pleasant flight from wherever it is you live in the mountains. I’ve been told the high altitude can have a deleterious effect on one’s neurological activity.”
“The foundation for ITH Research is still in Taos,” said Hayden McMasterson, his smile no warmer and his voice a degree or two icier. He rubbed the crystal that hung around his neck from a leather thong until he felt a subtle sense of potency throughout his inner being. “I see you have your cameras positioned to capture the arrival of alien spacecraft. Won’t you ever give up and admit you’re wrong, Arthur? Surely The Roswell Incident Revisited debacle taught you something.”
“Only,” Arthur responded with a chuckle, “to be wary of pathological liars, but you’re much more familiar with them than I.”
“Five hundred and eleven crop circles were recorded last year alone. In not one instance were unidentified lights seen in the vicinity, much less malnourished gray chaps with bug eyes. These crop circles are clearly the product of intraterrestrial activity, as I proved conclusively in last month’s Chronicle.”
Arthur’s nostrils quivered. “I examined that aspect at great length in the Journal six months ago. It’s your ilk who keep insisting aliens must arrive in craft with pulsating lights. Any civilization capable of intergalactic travel does not require front-wheel drive and headlights to locate a cornfield. Furthermore, at the conference in Biloxi, I presented the supposition that mass hypnosis may well have been utilized in the rare instances in which witnesses were present.”
“Ah, yes, Biloxi. I had to decline to give the keynote address because I was taping a segment for Strange Stories in Puerto Rico. It’s good to know they found a substitute at the last minute, and I’m sure your hypothesis was presented with great sincerity, if not logic. Did you hypnotize the audience into buying it?”
Cynthia intervened before Arthur could reply. “Dr. Sageman uses hypnosis only in carefully controlled situations, Dr. McMasterson. He would never engage in cheap parlor tricks. You have read Rosemary T. and the Extrinsic Paradox, haven’t you?”
Hayden gave her a grave nod. “How nice to see you again, Ms. Dodder. Yes, I read Arthur’s little book about Ms. Tant’s abductions during her childhood. Isn’t it fortunate she was able to recall them in a timely manner so the book would be available at the convention in Peoria?”
“Listen here,” Arthur said, his fist drawn, “I will not stand here and listen to your—”
“Dr. Sageman! Dr. McMasterson! Could I get a shot of the two of you before it gets too dark?” Jules Channel stepped in front of them and held up a camera.
Animosity evaporated for the moment, and the two men arranged their expressions for maximum scholarly effect. After all, each was thinking, one has one’s reputation to consider, and even though Jules Channel was a skeptic at best, his work often appeared on the cover of the Weekly Examiner. Media were media.
“Could I have a shot, too?” asked a young woman. “I’m Lucy Fernclift from the Probe.” The two men swiveled obligingly. After much fumbling and squeaking, Lucy managed to take several pictures. She was about to ask them for a comment when Brian appeared at her side and gently led her away.
“You say you’re from the Probe?” he asked. “I’m afraid I must examine your credentials before Dr. Sageman poses for any more photographs. There are so many crackpots that we’ve learned to be cautious.”
Lucy noticed with some irritation that the man from the Weekly Examiner was immune from suspicion, but she set down her camera and hunted through her purse for her wallet. “I have my press card somewhere,” she said. “I know I had it in the motel room before I left. Is it possible to show it to you later?”
“How long have you worked for the Probe?”
“Just a couple of weeks. After I graduated from journalism school three years ago, the only job I could find was on a little weekly paper that needed someone to sell ads. I realize the Probe isn’t as highly regarded as The New York Times, but I needed a job, and the pay is—”
“Are you married?”
“I thought you wanted to examine my press credentials. My private affairs have nothing to do with—”
“So you’re the competition,” Jules said, sliding into the conversation with practiced ease. “We must get together and compare notes. I have several buddies who work for the Probe, and I’ve heard your new editor is something of a character.”
“He’s been very kind to me,” said Lucy.
Jules smiled. “Is that so? Let me tell you what I heard,” he said, putting his hand on her shoulder and lowering his voice to a conspiratorial whisper.
Brian stalked away to make sure Arthur and Hayden did not lapse into virulent exchanges that might lead to violence. They had come close on numerous occasions; some of the more heated incidents had become legendary. The panel in Pasadena was still discussed with a certain reverence. Not even Brian had been prepared when Arthur dashed the contents of the water pitcher into Hayden’s face. The pitcher had been full. Arthur had been surprisingly nimble when Hayden recovered and charged like a slavering mastodon.
To his relief, Cynthia had lured Arthur away with questions about the camera position and Hayden was busy setting up his tripod. Rosemary was conversing with a woman of monstrous proportions and an expression not unlike Hayden’s as the water dripped off his nose. Beyond the fence the corn rippled seductively as the moon rose over the ridge. Stars unseen in Los Angeles glittered, and the Milky Way was a gossamer swath across the sky. It was a fine night for a close encounter, Brian told himself with only the faintest sneer.
“Duck,” whispered Ruby Bee over her shoulder, then tripped over the remains of a bushel basket and barely saved herself from a fall. “If Raz should look out the window, you might as well wave and holler howdy.”
Estelle was having her own problems with a piece of wire that was curled around her ankle like a snake. “Then stop gabbling, Mrs. Livingston-I-Presume. I don’t see why we didn’t just give him a dollar like we did this morning and go stand by the fence. I may have been the one that said we could creep around to the barn, but I’d forgotten how ornery his yard is. Ouch!”
Ruby Bee grabbed Estelle’s wrist and hauled her around the corner of the shack. They picked their way through more debris and finally slipped into the barn, where the rankness was enough to make them gag. Once their eyes had adjusted to the diminished light, they found convenient knotholes and assessed the scene.
“Who’s that white-skinned man?” Estelle said softly. “He looks like one of those Albanians.”
“The word is ‘albino,’ and he ain’t one. He’s a male secretary.”
“I’ve never heard of such a thing.”
Ruby Bee moved a ladder aside and tried a bigger knothole. “Well, now you have. He works for Dr. Sageman, who’s written a bunch of books about flying saucers and how the aliens kidnap unsuspecting folks and perform unnatural acts on them. His name’s Brian, and he said he’d get me an autographed copy of one of the books.” She allowed Estelle a little time to be impressed, then added, “See that woman talking to Dahlia? Dr. Sageman has written at least
three books about her experiences being poked and probed by little gray men.”
“She looks fine to me.”
“Of course she does, Estelle. It happened a long time ago, and she’d forgotten all about it. Dr. Sageman had to hypnotize her so she could remember.”
“How did he know to hypnotize her?”
Ruby Bee was trying to come up with a caustic reply when the barn door opened with a faint squeak. She pulled Estelle behind a bale of hay, then peered over the top of it. She recognized Lucy Fernclift from her slight stature, but whoever else was there was shielded by the door.
After some murmuring back and forth, Lucy said, “All I can give you is a thousand dollars.”
“We’ll be here for several days,” said a low male voice. “It’s too risky to talk now. We can continue the negotiations back at that fleabag motel.”
The barn door squeaked once more. Ruby Bee and Estelle looked at each other, then resumed their earlier positions. The phrase “fleabag motel” wasn’t sitting real well with one of ’em.
“‘Yes, we’ll gather at the river, the beautiful, the beautiful ri … ver,’” Brother Verber sang as he slithered and slid along the bank of Boone Creek. He was sorry he’d ever bought the boots, much less put them on and left his shoes in the rectory. They were so caked with mud that each step was requiring something of a minor miracle. He’d dropped his flashlight so many times he’d lost count. The pith helmet was about as useless as a one-horned cow, but it made him feel like he was on a safari in some foreign country where the jungle was filled with tigers and godless cannibals. If he hadn’t been so sure that the Good Lord had blessed the mission, he’d have been a mite crumpy about what was turning into an exhausting ordeal.
The Good Lord hadn’t been picky about which way to go, and upstream had seemed easier on account of the pastures alongside the creek. Brother Verber knew he wasn’t gonna chance upon any fornication in those stretches, but he also knew he’d appreciate an occasional respite from the mud and mossy rocks and the alarmin’ possibility that he might step on a water moccasin. He mouthed a prayer of gratitude to the Good Lord for throwing in some free moonlight.