by Kat Martin
“No one calls me colonel anymore. Still, after so many years, it has a nice familiar ring to it.” Releasing a long slow breath, the gray-haired man leaned back in his chair. When he started talking, it was obvious he had told the story a number of times before, but that made it no less interesting.
“I was only a shavetail lieutenant back then,” he started, “on perimeter duty the night it happened. July, it was, of 1947. I remember it was hotter than a pistol. I was wiping my forehead with a handkerchief when I first saw the light, sort of a silver streak across the sky, then a flash when it hit the ground. I radioed it in, of course. Thought it might be a small plane going down, or more likely, a meteor or something. A couple hours later I wound up in the recovery party.”
He shifted, suddenly looking up. “I forgot to ask…you all want some coffee or something? There’s some Coca-Cola in the icebox.”
“We’re fine,” Julie answered for both of them.
The colonel simply nodded, settled more comfortably in his chair. “All together that night, more than a dozen soldiers were dispatched to the site where the craft went down. I saw the wreckage up real close and I saw what was in it.”
“What did it look like?” Julie asked when he paused.
“It was all in pieces, you understand, but some of them were pretty fair-sized. There were some odd sort of beams with funny markings on them. Looked like Egyptian hieroglyphics, but nobody could figure out what they said. Other pieces were shiny, like silver, but when you picked it up, it was light as a feather. One of the guys said it would have to be light in order to withstand the forces of acceleration.”
“How big was it?” Patrick asked.
“From what was left, near as we could guess about fifteen feet. We figured it must have been disk-shaped when it was whole. We didn’t see any windows.”
“You said you saw what was in it.” Julie leaned forward on the sofa. “What was it you saw, Colonel Beeson?”
“Not a what, Ms. Ferris, a who. There were four of them, little tiny fellows no more than four feet high. Gray they were, leathery skinned. Big heads, small bodies, hands with long thin fingers. Some of the men loaded them onto stretchers and they were taken away in an ambulance. We never saw them up real close but near as we could tell, all of them were dead.”
Julie felt a chill move through her. “A story about it appeared the next day in the newspaper, isn’t that right?”
He nodded. “Some reporter from the Roswell Daily Record heard about it from the ranchers who reported the crash that night. They were the first ones there. A reporter called someone at the base and at first nobody thought to deny it. By the following day, the brass had all been flown in and things began to get sticky. All the guys in the recovery party were told to keep their mouths shut—in no uncertain terms. Top secret, they said. Classified information of the highest priority. Anyone who was the least bit uncooperative didn’t last long in the Air Force after that and left with the threat of a treason prosecution if they talked about a secret operation.”
“But you lasted,” Patrick said. “So you must have kept your silence for a number of years.”
“That’s right. I never said a word till I retired and all this talk about Roswell began to resurface. I was older by then, more open to what it might mean. I started thinking maybe the government ought to start telling people the truth about what happened. I had grandkids to think about. I started wondering how many more UFO incidents were being covered up and if that was the smart thing to do.”
Julie scratched a few words in her notebook. “In one of the articles I read, it said that more than five hundred people in some way connected to the Roswell incident have now come forward.”
“That’s right, counting the office staff, officers’ wives, children of the people who were involved at the time it occurred.”
“If the Roswell incident really happened,” Patrick said, “why doesn’t the government just admit it? After all, it happened over sixty years ago. What difference could it possibly make now?”
“Every difference, my friend. Once the truth is out and an extraterrestrial presence is confirmed as a fact, every facet of government will have to be directed toward the problems that go with it. They’d have to consider military defense, communication with another life form, protecting the public from possible alien diseases—the list is endless. What head of government wants to deal with all that?”
Julie said nothing and neither did Patrick.
She thought of Laura and nervously shifted on the sofa. “Do you think it’s possible they could still be out there? Watching us, I mean…perhaps even studying us?”
He grunted. “Anything’s possible, I guess. I know UFOs are real. That’s about all I can tell you. The rest you’ll have to figure out for yourself.”
Julie stood up and so did Patrick. “Thank you, Colonel Beeson.”
“Don’t thank me—I enjoyed the conversation. Kids all live pretty far away. Don’t get down here very often.” He walked them to the door. “Helluva story, ain’t it? Be a damned good tale, even if I just made it up.”
Julie’s head snapped around. “You didn’t, did you—just make it up?”
Colonel Beeson chuckled. “I was there, remember?” He didn’t say more and she didn’t press him. It seemed the truth was always a nebulous thing.
They left the house and Patrick opened her car door, went around and climbed into the passenger seat. “You didn’t really believe that old man, did you?”
She had pondered that question since the moment she met Lee Beeson. “Frankly, yes I did. At least the part about the ship itself. I’ve read other accounts that agreed with that part of what he said. And there were quite a number of them. Hundreds of people say the Roswell incident really happened.”
Patrick shrugged, moving the long sinews across his shoulders. “It’s possible I guess, but even if it is the truth, that doesn’t mean your sister was abducted.”
“No, but it certainly gives the theory more credence.” They were driving through the mountains, taking the back way home to her Malibu beach house. “Did you know that in the piney woods of east Texas in 1980, two women and their little boy claim they drove under a UFO that was taking off? They suffered radiation burns that are fully documented, and radiation sickness that lingers even today. The weirdest part is they sued the U.S. government for damages. Even in the ’90s the suit was still going on. I haven’t read how it ended.”
“Why would they sue the government?”
“Because as the disk took off, twenty-three military helicopters rose out of the woods to surround the craft and follow it away. They obviously knew it was there, so they must have known there was danger. Dozens of other people in the area saw both the object and the helicopters, but the government denies any of it ever occurred.”
Patrick released a slow breath of air. “I’m afraid I’m still a skeptic.”
“Why? Why are you and so many other people so sure this couldn’t be real?”
He smiled. “The answer’s very simple—physics.”
Julie frowned. “Physics? What does physics have to do with this?”
“Well, if you remember back to your college days, it’s a basic principle of physics that an object can’t travel faster than the speed of light. Since that is the case, even at a hundred and eighty-six thousand miles per second—almost light speed—it would take space travelers hundreds, even thousands of years to get here. That makes the whole thing damned hard to swallow.”
Julie mulled that over. “Okay, that makes a certain amount of sense. We’ll put the topic on hold till I can gather some more information.” She looked over at him and smiled. “In the meantime I’m starving. You said you’d buy me dinner. I’m heading toward Malibu. I thought we’d pick up something we could take home…maybe later take that walk on the beach. What kin
d of food shall we eat?”
Patrick grinned. “How about Japanese?”
Julie rolled her eyes. “I think I’ve created a monster.”
* * *
They drove along in silence for a while, winding their way through low rolling hills covered with stiff shrubs and wavy brown grasses. The sun felt warm on Val’s face, but a cool ocean breeze made the heat of the day bearable. The top was down on Julie’s little Mercedes.
Val glanced over at the woman who drove with expert skill through the winding mountain passes. She wore a gauzy white scarf tied around her dark red hair and she was smiling, enjoying the challenge, the speed, and perhaps, he hoped, the company of the man who sat beside her.
All afternoon she had been different. He had felt the subtle shift from the moment she’d agreed to let him come along. She seemed a little more relaxed than she usually was, as if she had made some momentous decision and now had simply to carry it out.
They stopped for Chinese takeout, the closest they could find to Japanese along the way, then sat out on Julie’s sundeck to eat it, accompanied by tall glasses of Perrier. A bottle of Pouilly Fuisse Owen Mallory had brought over the night of her birthday party remained untouched on the counter.
Val had stripped off his jacket and tie and unbuttoned the collar of his blue Oxford shirt. Julie had changed into a sleeveless flowing caftan that fell close to the body, outlining her feminine curves. The paisley silk whispered against her skin as she moved, and it was all he could do not to reach out and touch her.
By the time they’d finished eating, darkness had fallen and the moon had come up, a huge white glowing orb that hung over the mountains to the east.
“It’s beautiful, isn’t it?” Julie stood beside him at the rail, listening to the roar of the waves against the shore several stories below.
“Magnificent…”
“I saw you watching it the night you came to dinner. I hadn’t realized you were such a romantic till I saw the way you stared at the moon.”
A brow arched up. “And just how was that?”
“As if you had never seen it. As if you had just discovered it and found it completely fascinating.”
He smiled, thinking she was nearly correct. There were no moons on Toril, and studying it from space wasn’t the same as watching it rise, seeing it turn everything in its path a shimmering silver.
“It’s quite a sight,” he said. “I don’t think I could ever grow tired of seeing the way it lightens the sky, or does something as simple as reflecting the scarlet in your hair.” He reached up, wrapped a bouncy dark red curl around his finger, felt it slide across his skin.
Julie turned a little and he cupped her cheek in his palm. “You and the moon. Both of you so beautiful.” Bending his head, he kissed her, felt her soft mouth tremble under his. Inside his chest, his pulse began a rapid thudding. At the same time his blood seemed to thicken and grow sluggish. It pooled low in his belly, making him hard, making the hunger he had learned to suppress rise up with primal force.
“Patrick…” Tilting her head, Julie molded her mouth to his, fitting their lips perfectly together, opening to him and urging him to deepen the kiss. He drew her bottom lip into his mouth and sucked it gently, then tasted her deeply with his tongue. The walls of her mouth felt smooth and slick, her tongue rough and sensual, making the heat slide into his groin. His arousal strengthened, pressed insistently against the front of his pants. He couldn’t have imagined the incredible sensations, the building power of his desire.
The loose flowing robe she wore dipped low in back. He ran his hands over her skin, tracing the smoothness, allowing the pleasure to slowly seep through him, savoring each new sensation. Tilting her head back, he kissed the column of her throat, trailed moist kisses across her shoulders. He worked the zipper down the front of the caftan and eased the garment down to her waist, baring her lovely milk-white breasts.
A jolt of heat spiraled through him, made the perspiration break out at his temples. Bending his head to a dusky tip, he felt it tighten beneath his tongue, and a groan slipped from his throat. His body pulsed, felt hot and heavy, throbbed in a way he wasn’t prepared for, and his hands grew suddenly unsteady. He opened his mouth, took more of the rounded swell, sucking deeply, then filled his palm with the heavy, hard-tipped fullness. He could feel her quivering even as she clutched his shoulders, began to work the buttons on his shirt.
He kissed her again, deeply, erotically, letting the unbearable heat burn through him, wanting her and fighting to stay in control. He felt her hands on his chest, tracing the ridges of muscle across his rib cage, twining through his curly black chest hair. She stripped the shirt away then worked the buttons on his pants and slid down the zipper, her fingers trembling, suddenly a little uncertain.
His hands shook as he cupped her breasts, ringed them with his tongue, and a rush of fire speared through him. His loins felt heavy, full, his shaft rock-hard and pulsing. Taking her mouth in a ravaging kiss, he stroked deeply into the sweetness inside, wanting to possess her, craving her like a drug.
He was shaking all over, on fire with need, his control badly slipping. When she touched him again, wrapped a small hand around his sex and began to stroke him there, waves of pleasure broke over him, and a need so great he had to clamp down on his jaw to keep his body from exploding.
Panic shot through him, making his heart race even faster. His blood was pumping, burning through his veins, his skin felt flushed and damp, and his body tingled all over.
He groped for control, tried to wrest it from the depths of his mind, but all he could think of was burying his hard length inside her. He wanted to tear off her clothes, drag her down on the deck, force her legs apart and thrust himself into the place between her legs. His mind was a swirling haze of passion, his body thrummed with heat and need, pulsed with a hunger so strong he could taste it on his tongue.
His hands tightened on her shoulders. He searched for the strength he needed, the means to regain his control, but found nothing but primitive, mind-numbing hunger.
Fear splintered inside him, devouring his tenuous hold on reason. What if he hurt her, lost control completely and took her by force? He had to stop, had to gain control of himself, couldn’t allow himself to rage so wildly out of control. His grip grew fierce, his eyes dark and forbidding. With a last determined effort, he jerked himself away, worked to drag in great breaths of air.
“Patrick?” Julie stood trembling in the moonlight, her green eyes luminous and uncertain. “Is something wrong? Did I do something…?” With shaky hands, she caught the front of the caftan and pulled it up to cover her naked breasts, clutching the fabric protectively around her.
“No.” He shook his head, his voice ragged. “No. It isn’t you. It’s me.” Turning away from her, he grabbed his shirt off the floor and shrugged it on, fumbled with the buttons, gave up and tucked the tail into his pants, then zipped them up. He raked back his hair and started for the door, barely aware that Julie followed.
“Where…where are you going?”
“Home. I’ll catch a cab from the shopping center down the street.”
Her chin came up. “I brought you. I can take you home.”
He only shook his head. “I need to walk. I’ll get home all right. You don’t need to worry.” He was out the door before she had time to argue.
If he lived five hundred years, he would never forget the confusion and hurt he saw on her beautiful face.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Gripping the thin silk caftan over her breasts, Julie stared at the front door Patrick had just closed behind him. She could hear his heavy footfalls on the stairs leading down to the street. Her chest hurt. Tears spilled over her lashes and trailed down her cheeks.
“Oh God, Patrick, what did I do?” But silence was her only answer. For the last eight years, she ha
d harbored a secret physical desire for Patrick Donovan. She had fought it, defeated it, filed it safely away. But since his heart attack, things had changed.
It had been easy to refuse the selfish, hedonistic man he had been. But this new Patrick, this gentle, caring, concerned Patrick Donovan was a man she could not resist. She had been frightened of the risk she was taking, but it never occurred to her that Patrick might be having reservations, too. Or perhaps he had discovered he no longer wanted her the way he had believed.
Blinking back a fresh round of tears, Julie walked into the living room. She grabbed a tissue, her hands still shaking, dabbed at her cheeks and blew her nose, then sank wearily down on the sofa. Her heart still pounded. Her insides tingled. The ache of unspent desire throbbed through her veins.
What had just happened? What had she done? Julie clamped down on the urge to cry again. It never did any good and usually made her feel worse. Besides, she should have known something bad would happen. He was Patrick, after all. What had she expected?
Still, she hadn’t been with a man for the past three years, not since she had ended her affair with Jeffrey Muller. Once she had made the decision to sleep with Patrick, she had wanted everything to be perfect. The time seemed right: a beautiful night, a full moon, the soothing sounds of the sea battering softly against the shore. She had wanted Patrick so very badly, and at first he had seemed to want her. She didn’t know what had gone wrong or how she was ever going to face him again.
Her throat ached, and her stomach churned with embarrassment at Patrick’s cold rejection. She rubbed her temple, hoping it wasn’t the beginning of a headache, thinking that the way things had been going lately, she shouldn’t be surprised by anything that occurred.
First the terrible migraines, then Laura’s paranoia and outlandish claims. Now there was Patrick and the awful realization that nothing between them would ever be the same.
