by Joan Hess
He scuttled away before I could express my dissatisfaction with his offering, which was so meager even Brother Verber would have turned up his nose at it. I made a dash for the door of No. 5, but Ruby Bee cut me off.
“What is going on now?” she said, her fingernails biting into my arm. “Is it true that Dr. Sageman was murdered in his room? And what about Estelle? Why aren’t you doing something to find her before she’s murdered, too?”
I told the deputy I’d be back, then hustled Ruby Bee to her unit and sat her down on the sofa. She finally quit barking at me, accepted a glass of water, and slumped back into the upholstery. I returned to the tiny kitchenette and washed off the blood.
“I bet I know why Dr. Sageman was murdered,” Ruby Bee said from the other room. “He worked for a top secret government intelligence agency that collects evidence from crashed flying saucers. They’re holding live aliens in an underground laboratory somewhere in the desert.”
I stayed at the sink, letting the water run over my hands. The damage appeared to be superficial, but a few of the punctures were still oozing tiny beads of blood. I had a feeling my heroinism wasn’t going to win me any citations. “Gee, that’s good to know. Did you read this in the Probe or the Weekly Examiner?”
“It’s the honest to God truth, and the proof is inside Dr. Sageman’s computer files. All you have to do is find the right one and read it for yourself. This conspiracy is putting the entire human race in danger. Maybe Dr. Sageman decided to tell what he knew, and someone killed him to silence him.”
“Then you don’t think Bigfoot did it?”
“I wish you’d listen to me! One of the folks staying at the Flamingo Motel is a spy for the government. There’s something real fishy about Lucy Fernclift. As for Rosemary, she could be putting on an act. For all we know, she could be a trained killer. She could even be in cahoots with someone else, like Dr. McMasterson.”
I dried my hands and came to the doorway. “Do you remember when Doowadiddy Buchanon used to call me every other day to report that Nazi storm troopers were hiding in his root cellar? The term for that is ‘paranoia.’”
“Don’t get smart with me. You just go ask Jules Channel if you don’t believe me. This very morning he told Estelle and me the whole story.”
“Maybe I’ll go get my thumbscrews and do just that,” I said in a sinister voice. I left her glowering and went over to McMasterson’s unit. It hadn’t been all that long ago that I’d implied he would be the logical suspect if Sageman turned up dead; now seemed like as good a time as any to find out if I was right.
He looked downright ill as he let me in. “I tried to surround myself with a protective force field, but I still feel vulnerable to all this negativity. You feel it, don’t you?”
“No,” I said. “When I saw you this morning, you were going to examine the new crop circles. How long did you stay there?”
“Until three o’clock or so. There was such cosmic intensity that I found the experience as exhausting as it was exhilarating. There are half a dozen three-line leys, which means the circles are potent with powerful nodal energy. I’m confident we’ll be able to establish a link with area tumuli.” Before I realized what was happening, he put his arms around me and enveloped me in a warm, hairy hug. “I wish you’d come with me to the circles and allow yourself to absorb their healing powers. We’ll be safe there, and our auras will be strengthened.”
He was squeezing me so tightly I could barely breathe. The smell of musk oil was overpowering, and his ponytail was tickling my nose. I finally resorted to grinding my heel into his bare foot. Once he quit hopping around and yelping, I said, “Trust me when I say I am not a New Age person. I like my aura just the way it is, thank you, and prefer it to remain this way right into old age. You said you came back in the middle of the afternoon. Did you see or hear anything?”
He sat down and examined his foot. “I heard car doors slam, but I was so involved with my writing that I didn’t even glance out the window. I’m composing a series of quatrains to celebrate the circles and welcome our intraterrestrial forefathers.” He let his foot fall and gave me a sullen look. “Not that you’d be interested.”
“Did you hear anyone in Sageman’s room last night?”
“I don’t think so.” He fingered his crystal as if seeking a second opinion. “No, I didn’t hear anything, but as I said, I was writing. Creativity produces an altered state of consciousness in which one’s psychic energies—”
“Jules Channel said he heard someone go into Sageman’s room at eight o’clock. Were there any respites from your state of altered consciousness when you heard anything at all?”
“No,” he said firmly.
I warned him not to leave town and went back outside, where the breeze smelled of nothing more cloying than fresh manure. Who could have been in Sageman’s room? My eyes wandered down the row of units as I made a list. McMasterson claimed to have been in his room, Lucy Fernclift in hers. Brian was at the creek. If Jules was guilty, why had he told me? Sageman and Rosemary were busy with Dahlia. Cynthia had told Ruby Bee and Estelle that she’d sat in the car until the chill drove her into the bar and grill, and as best I could recall, that had been at eight o’clock. Someone had been waiting for her to leave.
I must have made a little noise because the deputy stepped out of the shadows.
“Deputy Whitbread here,” he said, visibly disappointed I wasn’t being ravaged by Bigfoot. “Is everything okay, ma’am?”
I waved at him, stuck my hands in my pockets, and leaned against the weathered wood while I mentally reconstructed the scene. Then, berating myself for not noticing the glitch earlier, I went back across the lot and knocked on the door of No. 2.
Rosemary yanked me inside and locked the door. “This is so terrible! I’m so upset that I don’t know what to do. Arthur was such a dear man …” She turned away and grabbed the edge of the dresser. “And I’m frightened,” she admitted almost inaudibly, her shoulder blades jutting underneath the thin fabric of her robe. “First Brian and now Arthur …”
I patted her on the back and assured her the deputy was on duty. “I have a question about last night,” I continued. “You were sitting there when you heard a car door slam. Arthur looked out the window, then went outside. Why did he do that?”
“To see who was leaving, I suppose.”
“Even though it meant interrupting the session?”
“He was gone only a few minutes,” she began defensively, then shook her head. “It did seem odd. Dahlia was at a very significant moment in her narrative, and I was surprised when Arthur told her to retreat and fill her mind with neutral images.”
“Did he say anything to you before he left or when he came back?”
“Not that I recall. We finished the session, and then he brought Dahlia out of her trance and said he’d contact her about scheduling another session.”
I went outside. Sageman must have seen a light in his room, I thought as I stood next to Rosemary’s car. He’d gone outside to see who was there and then returned shortly thereafter and said nothing to Rosemary. Who could it have been, and why hadn’t he mentioned it?
I trudged across the road and up the steps to my apartment. As I reached for the doorknob, I heard a noise from below. I peered over the rail and saw Jim Bob come out the back door of Roy’s apartment, pause to take a piss, and climb into his truck. He turned on the headlights as he pulled onto the road and drove out of view.
It was so uninteresting that I opened a can of chicken soup and turned on my tiny portable television set to watch the talk show guests make fools of themselves. And started thinking about Bigfoot, who was making a fool of yours truly. And came to the conclusion he wasn’t the only one.
Dahlia found a stump and sat down to rest. It was spooky all by herself in the woods, especially when the moon went behind the clouds and the shadows got black as the inside of a rain barrel. It was noisy, too, with the birds squawking and the leaves crackling, and the
night air was getting a mite crumpy.
Taking a sandwich from the sack, she wiggled around until she was comfortable and took a bite. She was going to need her strength when she finally arrived at the top of the ridge. She’d seen the orange lights and knew they’d be there, waiting for her. Why else would her nose have started tingling so bad it liked to explode?
She popped the last of the sandwich in her mouth, licked her fingers, and set the sack in her lap where she could reach the cookies without having to root for ’em. Kevin would be getting home from work afore too long, she realized with a nervous belch, and the first thing he’d see was the note she left on the kitchen table. He’d probably double over with pain when he read how she’d gone up to confront her kidnappers and do what she had to do.
Which she would figure out by the time she climbed all the way to the top of the ridge. The trail was a sight worse than she remembered it, but it had been a long while since anyone had gone by the ramshackle remains of Robin Buchanon’s shack. Most likely the outhouse had collapsed by now, as well as the barn and the rickety fence. All of ’em had been held together with nothing more than spit and a prayer.
Not that aliens would care. She ate another sandwich while she tried to recall if the flying saucer she’d been in had a bathroom. Surely it did if they traveled all those light-years from another galaxy. They couldn’t count on finding gas stations along the way.
She lapsed into worrying some more about Kevin and how he’d react to her note. Finally, when she’d finished the last sandwich, she struggled to her feet and resumed her hike up the side of the ridge. It was so treacherous she wondered why they were making her hike rather than beaming her up like they’d done before. It didn’t seem mannersome.
Mrs. Jim Bob felt like she was riding a three-legged mule. The car bucked and shuddered, and all the warning lights on the dashboard were blinking so brightly that she wanted to close her eyes. The interior was filled with an acrid smell that made her eyes water and her throat sting, but it only got worse when she rolled down the window.
It was all Jim Bob’s fault, she reminded herself as she narrowly avoided a fallen tree trunk. He was gonna regret the day he was born. Here she’d been doing her Christian duty to save his immortal soul from bankruptcy, and he didn’t have the decency to drive slow so she could catch up with him.
She hadn’t known the woods could be so dark and unfriendly. Whenever the moon came out from behind the clouds, it cast an eerie light that reminded her she was at the mercy of whatever was lurking behind the bushes. Like heathen aliens, she thought as she let go of the steering wheel long enough to make sure her door was locked.
The front of the car dipped so abruptly her head jerked forward and hit the steering wheel. Gasping, she tried to regain control, but the car crashed into a spindly oak tree. Branches fell across the windshield. Seconds later smoke drifted out from under the hood like Satan’s furnace had been fired up.
She cut off the engine, but that didn’t seem to help. The smoke was getting so thick she could barely see. The lights on the dashboard blinked in farewell and went out. The headlights followed suit.
The sudden blackness added to her fright. She scrambled out of the car, falling onto the ground in a confusion of arms and legs, and crawled as fast as she could away from her car. The smoke came after her, as did the sound of sizzling.
She grabbed a branch and got to her feet. The most important thing was to get away from the car before it exploded, even if it meant plunging blindly into the woods.
Praying the Good Lord was on duty, she plunged blindly into the woods.
Larry Joe sat at the kitchen table, his shotgun propped within easy reach. The test papers from his fifth-period class (Auto Repair II: Carburetors and Combustion Systems) were all graded, and the results posted in a spiral notebook. He’d tried to read one of Joyce’s paperbacks, but his eyes kept drifting closed. Besides, he wasn’t sure he liked all the references to hard bellies and throbbing manhood. It made him wonder what all, went through Joyce’s mind when she was in bed with him. Which is where he wanted to be, instead of sitting in a cold kitchen with nothing but an occasional cockroach to keep him company.
Down the hallway one of the kids was snoring steadily. Another had padded to the bathroom and returned to bed without bothering to check on the well-being of the lonely sentinel in the kitchen.
Larry Joe went to the window and looked out at the backyard. If Bigfoot was hiding behind the forsythia bushes, he was doing so good a job of it that he hadn’t disturbed the dog asleep on the patio. The garbage cans had not been tumped, or the dog’s bowl emptied, or the plastic birdbath disturbed.
He was about to go watch television (with the sound turned off, of course) when he saw movement out behind the carport. The dog raised its head, then dashed off in the opposite direction with its tail between its legs. There was something there all right. And it was coming toward the house.
Larry Joe’d always thought the best way to die was in your sleep or maybe with your loved ones gathered around the bed. He’d been obliged to play football in high school and go drinking with the boys after the games, but he’d been careful to be the one to drive home. After graduation he’d been secretly relieved when the army doctor found a hairline fracture that hadn’t healed like it was supposed to. These days he hunted with Jim Bob and some of the others, but he kept close to camp and even volunteered to stay back and cook. He made sure Joyce had the tires rotated every year.
His hand was damp as he picked up his shotgun and slipped out the back door. It was still there, whatever it was. He eased around the barbecue grill and tried to see into the inky shadows.
Light from the utility pole caught a hairy shoulder. Without stopping to think, Larry Joe raised his shotgun and fired.
The blast almost knocked him off his feet, and the sound roared in his ears like a freight train bearing down on him. Inside the house the kids began to scream. And the damn dog, wherever it was, began to howl.
I made a detour by the PD to get my gun, then went to find Deputy Whitbread in the motel parking lot, where not a creature was stirring. He’d retreated to the relative warmth of his car and with reluctance rolled down the window as I approached.
“Something wrong, ma’am?” he whispered.
“What’s your first name?”
“Ed, ma’am. Actually it’s Eduardo, on account of my grandfather being from—”
“Here’s what I want you to do, Ed,” I said hastily. “Turn on the police radio and get into a loud conversation with the dispatcher about a three-car wreck over in Emmet. After a minute or two tell her that you’re on your way. Switch on your headlights and drive all the way down to the fence, turn around, and peel out of the lot.” I considered the scenario. “And hit your siren as you go past the bar and onto the road. Got it?”
“A three-car wreck in Emmet? Was anybody hurt?”
“Improvise, Ed.”
“But Sheriff Dorfer told me to stay here until someone relieves me at seven.”
I crossed my fingers. “I just spoke to him from my apartment,” I said, doing my best to radiate sincerity. “He okayed all this.”
Deputy Whitbread scratched his head and squirmed. “Maybe I ought to confirm your orders, ma’am. Sheriff Dorfer—”
“Is already back in his bed, putting his icy feet on Mrs. Dorfer and fighting for his half of the blanket. He won’t feel kindly toward you if he has to get out of bed again and go all the way to the living room.”
Deputy Whitbread squirmed awhile longer, then agreed to do as I said. I slipped into No. 5 and watched through a slit in the curtains as he feigned an argument with the dispatcher, who kept demanding to know what in thunderation he was talking about, and eventually drove off. To my surprise, he even remembered to turn on the siren (it had been a long list to keep in mind).
I used my flashlight to collect the tape recorder and make my way into the bathroom. It wasn’t the most comfortable place to sit, but I had
no idea if I would end up waiting all night for someone who’d failed to appreciate the opportunity provided by Deputy Whitbread’s departure. There may have been something a tad undignified about sitting on a toilet in the dark, my gun on the edge of the tub and the tape recorder in the sink, but the word “dignified” wasn’t one I’d have chosen to describe the week.
Once the tape was rewound, I lowered the volume and began to listen. Dr. Sageman’s voice was crisp as he announced the data regarding the session, then seductive as he led Dahlia through a series of images involving an ascending staircase. Before too long she was begging to be allowed to rest, claiming she was tuckered out worse than a fiddler’s elbow, but he kept urging her to climb to the next flight. He eventually had to agree that she could have an orange soda pop before she went on, but refused to allow her any cream-filled sponge cakes.
I quit smirking when she said, “It’s midnight, and I’m in my bedroom now. I don’t know if I ought to wait up for Kevvie, ’cause he’s been working late every night this week.” She wheezed sadly. “There’s no reason to bother. Most nights he’s too tired to … see to my needs. He used to be so eager that those old bedsprings would get to squeaking and I was worried we’d wake up the preacher, but—”
Dr. Sageman cleared his throat. “So you’re climbing into bed all by yourself, right? You’ve got the pillow under your head and the blankets tucked under your chin. It’s nice and warm, isn’t it? Lift your head and look around. Are there any strange lights shining through the bedroom window?”
“A white light,” she said, beginning to snivel. “I ain’t never seen anything like it before.”
Her story got more and more ludicrous, as Dr. Sageman steadily fed her images whenever she faltered and corrected her whenever she strayed. In the background Rosemary made little clucks of approval whenever Dahlia rescinded a description in order to agree with Sageman.
Before too long Dahlia was aboard the spacecraft and surrounded by silver men who jabbered at one another as they examined her. I was so enthralled that I nearly fell off the toilet when I realized I’d heard a noise at the front door of the unit. Unprofessional on my part, I suppose, but nevertheless true.