A Killer's Secret

by Stanley Gray

  “I have my phone.” Dale offered.

  Alan briefly considered that. He didn’t like it. But, it was probably the best they could do to salvage things at this point. “Okay.” he said. He held out one hand over his shoulder and felt the weight of the device as it was surrendered. Looking at it, Alan laughed. “You still have this old piece of crap?” he asked, turning slightly to share his amused expression with his partner. The man shrugged.

  Looking at his watch, Alan noted the time. He took a few moments to figure out how to use Dale’s phone, then began recording. “This is Alan Grunke, Special Agent In Charge, Klamath Falls Division, NASA Office of Inspector General.” It felt weird saying that. Klamath Falls Division. For so long, he had worked in Pasadena. But, those days were long gone. “With me is Dale Johnson, Agent, Klamath Falls, NASA OIG. It is September 26, 2018, and the time is… 12:09, local.”

  He gulped, then walked forward, one fist clenched to the point it hurt. Alan held the phone up and out, just in front of his head. He turned it back to face him when he spoke. “Initial observations by myself indicate the affected area is approximately 8000 square feet. The affected area has been burned badly, and the affected area appears uniformly burned.” Alan paused to consider that. Normally, heck, always, burn patterns would lead one to the origin of a fire or fires. Because fires gain and lose heat as they progress and decline. It would take a very hot source to burn even a small amount of marshland.

  “Um…no known victims have been reported. A number of civilians were present near the crash site when Agent Johnson and I arrived on the scene at approximately 11:50 local time. Highway 97 runs about 900 feet behind my current position, and around 1200 feet from the affected area. There is and was a small local law enforcement presence near the crash site, though the site and affected area itself has not been cordoned off or otherwise preserved. The law enforcement presence seems primarily concerned with managing traffic and ensuring the civilians’ safety from passing motorists.” Alan took a breath.

  “Agent Johnson and I, in our haste to arrive at the scene, did not bring any of the normal forensic tools for preserving evidence.” Alan wiped his head. He sighed. That line was hard. It still seemed to echo in his mind.

  “The affected area is near a sparsely populated residential area known as Shady Pines, a suburb of Klamath Falls. Umm…I currently reside in Shady Pines at 673189 Shady Pines Rd., 97601. The marsh is sometimes referred to as Hank’s Marsh.” Alan said.

  He fidgeted with the touchscreen and eventually succeeded in turning the camera off. Turning to Dale, Alan wondered aloud what they should do next. He knew, but he also didn’t. There was no real precedent for this sort of thing. Only one other time had Alan actually inspected a real crash site. Most of his job entailed tracing military flight paths, contacting reporters, and investigating stubborn people who identified themselves as witnesses or abductees. Flash a badge, mention the word fraud a few times, and people would grumble then quiet down.

  “Maybe we should call Devin.” Dale suggested.

  Alan frowned. Devin Jordan. Devin fucking Jordan.

  Devin acted as the Special Agent in Charge in Pasadena. In the relative small, nearly anonymous agency they worked for, Devin was the outlier. A bold man and former professional basketball player for the Orlando Magic, he thrived on cameras and attention. He’d already written six books and appeared on popular television shows about aliens. He also leeched the ideas and success of others. Alan possessed a brilliant mind, a wealth of experience, and a stellar background. Which is why he now was in Klamath Falls, Oregon.

  It was supposed to be a professional Siberia. Instead, it might turn out to be his key to revenge.

  To say Alan hated Devin Johnson might be an understatement.

  “This is certainly unusual. We’re probably going to need more hands on deck.” Alan thought out loud.

  Dale nodded.

  “Let’s wait a bit before we call him. You’re certified in arson investigations, right?” Alan asked.

  Dale thought about it. “Yeah. I’m pretty sure.”

  Alan pounced. He got closer to his partner. “Pretty sure?” he asked, voice low and ominous, eyebrow raised. He shouldn’t have been able to intimidate a much larger, much tougher man like Dale, but the ploy worked. Dale backed up a step and looked away.

  “It might have lapsed. I did my training and hours in the Army. I was a mud puppy before I became a Green Beanie.” Dale said.

  “Mud puppy?” Alan asked. The eyebrow went up again, though this time, with less of an edge. Amusement and curiosity shone in his eyes, despite the circumstances.

  Dale smiled. “Sorry. MP. Anyway, is there a time limit on that shit? Do I have to renew certifications?” he asked.

  Alan shifted his feet. He looked up at the sky. Gray clouds began to bully the others out of their territory. He didn’t know the answer to that one. It irked him that he didn’t know. It annoyed him that he was annoyed. They average NASA OIG agent would never use arson investigation training, if they even had it all. Hell, they probably would never refer anyone for arrest, use their weapon, or otherwise put cuffs on a person. They were NASA cops, for crying out loud.

  “Let’s do it. I made the call, so if it comes back to haunt us, you’re clear.” Alan said. He was already turning to wade into the charred marsh when Dale stopped him.

  “You thinkin’ clearly? You sure you want to do that? I mean…I can get a nice security job in the Ukraine or something. Great money. I have a decent retirement, guaranteed. I don’t care if I have to take the heat on this one, boss.” Dale said.

  Alan paused. Then he smiled. “Just shut the fuck up and follow me. Let’s just not get caught, then we won’t have to worry about it.” he said. He knew Dale liked it when he cussed. Alan couldn’t understand why, but…he knew it worked.

  Alan couldn’t remember ever using vulgar language before meeting Dale.

  They walked back into the mysterious obsidian stain on the vast green ecosystem. Pretty soon, environmentalists would probably be down to protest. Protest what? Alan wondered. Things aren’t always rational in this world. Such as this strange Rorschach blot in the middle of nowhere.

  Alan felt the same initial sense of disrupted equilibrium, and he forced himself to stand, swaying slightly with the breeze, waiting out the nausea. Gradually, he felt stable, and took a slow visual survey of his surroundings. Everything still looked mostly the same. Dale stood close by. The big man was sweating despite the heat, and his pupils looked big. Dale breathed heavily.

  “You alright, man?” Alan said, trying to smirk and play things off. A real tough guy. But, they shared a glance. In that span of nanoseconds and silence, somehow they communicated to each other that they knew. They’d both felt it. They didn’t know what it was, but they’d felt it. And that scared the shit out of them.

  Alan felt vaguely reassured by this fact. He nodded. Looking away, he couldn’t help but think that if a former special ops soldier were frightened, then it was acceptable to experience that primal fear.

  “We need to get a hold…” Alan sensed another wave of nausea, and paused. He took a deep breath and looked at the obsidian earth. It still felt mushy underfoot, like many marshes do. But there was no mud, no water. Just bare, ashy scorched material. “We need to get a hold of one of those fire guys from Maryland. I think I remember them doing controlled burns out there in the marshes.” Alan said.

  Dale coughed into a fist. His eyes were now frantic, fervently moving from spot to spot in a restless manifestation of his anxiety. It seemed as if he sensed a predator lurking. Somewhere. Nearby, unseen, with its penetrating gaze insistently prodding them. “Why do we need to get a hold of some firefighter in Maryland?” Dale asked.

  “It would take a lot of heat to burn this much marshland.” Alan said. “A lot.” He repeated, quieter this time.

  They took a few more steps. The progress was impeded by the horrible sensations that rocked them intermittently. Alan beg
an to experience tinnitus-like symptoms, a deep ringing in his ears. It was going to be a long day.

  Chapter 5

  [You need to stop drinking, Alan.]

  Alan sat at the marble counter, staring out at the hummingbird feeder. The sky blushed and played coy with the lothario that was night. A few clouds lingered in the pastel-colored heavens. The view in this house was amazing.

  Alan reached over and grabbed another can of Two Towns Cider. He liked to start his evening drinking binge with ciders. They offered him the sanctity of delusion. He could almost trick himself into believing that, if he only got buzzed off of hard ciders in the beginning, that this didn’t make his descent into alcoholism any more imminent. He also drank ciders in the morning. The only way to get rid of his headaches was to consume more alcohol.

  “I can do what I want.” Alan grumbled.

  [Have you even eaten anything today?] the alien asked.

  Alan laughed. He swiveled, almost falling off of the brown wooden stool as he did so. “I still don’t even know your name.” he said. The words slipped out with all the sting of an accusation.

  [My people do not care so much for titles.] it said.

  “Well, we do.” Alan said. He took another swig. A bird flew by outside the window, landing on a thin grayish branch just outside the window.

  [Then call me Xenobia.] the creature finally said.

  Alan lapsed into silence, his eyes glazed and his manner doleful. Haunted. His shoulders hunched, his face transmogrified into a near-perpetual scowl, the man looked like the textbook definition of depression embodied in the flesh. He reached for another can of cider.

  “Ow!” he shrieked, jumping up and tossing the can aside, watching it with trepidation and confusion as it emitted a shrill sound and then burst, spraying sweet geysers of alcoholic blood. Alan shook his one hand limply, still feeling the tingle and burning that struck him when he touched the aluminum surface of his adult medication.

  [You have to stop drinking.] Xenobia said.

  Alan got up, and for a second made as if he were going to approach the alien. Malevolent intent glowed hot in his eyes. He rocked back and forth on the balls of his feet, standing in the middle of the hardwood floor, glaring at this unlikely creature he’d somehow ended up babysitting while it paused its jaunt through the galaxy. “Why?” he asked. Then he laughed. He began to pace, back and forth, in tight, angry lines. Back and forth, back and forth, the veins in his neck and temple bulging.

  “Why?” he asked again, this time louder. “Why should I stop drinking?” he asked. He pointed at the little blue alien. “And, better yet, why should I listen to you?” he asked. He began to pace again.

  Silence reigned for some time after that verbal sparring match. A tense silence laced with nasty nuances.

  Alan suddenly walked to the back porch, trying to open the door and failing at first. He made several attempts, straining harder with each effort. As he leaned against the brown wood-paneled wall, breathing heavily and trying to summon one ounce of whatever dignity he had remaining, the small stick keeping the door jammed caught his eye. He would have laughed under normal circumstances. Instead of chuckling, however, he ripped the slight obstruction from its secure location at the base of the door and launched it across the kitchen. He stormed out and angrily shut the door behind him.

  The crisp night air and hum of life felt refreshing. Alan inhaled, trying to get a hold of himself. He was a man who cherished control. Yet in this moment in time, he seemed to possess none. And what control he did have, over swatting the myriad mental mosquitoes with the numbing agent of alcohol, his newfound alien conspirator took away from him.

  He sensed it. Turning around, he saw it there. Xenobia offered a strange picture, standing there in the dim light cast by the living room lamp.

  [Come inside.] it said.

  Alan sighed. He cast one last glance back at the gorgeous sunset and the lake beyond, then returned inside.

  [What is bothering you?] Xenobia asked.

  Alan chuckled. He walked to his red leather recliner and collapsed. A rush of air and a creaking sound came from the chair. Wiping a hand over his face, he muttered incomprehensibly. He looked towards the kitchen and refrigerator. One hand jittered and drummed on the recliner’s arm. “What is bothering me?” he asked philosophically, head tilted up to stare at the ceiling, his mouth scoured into a pensive moue. Furrowed lines formed above on his forehead.

  He chuckled again.

  [Why are you laughing? Do you find my presence ironic? Am I what is bothering you?]

  Another chuckle. When Alan looked at Xenobia, his blue eyes shone like the Bay Bridge at night. “Of course you would know that, because you can read my fucking mind.” he said. He shrugged. The only thing he could do was laugh. “No, it’s not…just you. There’s… there’s a lot of pressure at work. Especially now.” he said.

  He put his weight on one arm as he started to get up, hoping to get another liquid ticket to destination: wasted. But Xenobia stopped him. When she reached out and touched him with her odd, blue hand, he started. Sweat began to appear on his upper lip and at his hairline, and he tensed up. Shrinking back into the chair, his eyes wide, Alan stared at the creature.

  Xenobia raised one hand to her face, and inspected it. Three fingers poked out from the blob-like hand. Each of the digits possessed crescent-shaped pads. Her skin was a waxy, mottled light blue, and Alan could see some of her internal organs. Slowly, she moved closer to him, and his ears began to ring. He felt the buzzing deep in his teeth. As the alien moved one finger over his jawline, he felt…fear.

  In truth, her tough felt like slithering through a cesspool during a hailstorm with snakes in your pants. Her hands were cold. Colder by far than the liquor hiding in the freezer. He longed for the absolution they could provide. Though in his heart, he understood they could only offer a distraction. Nothing could unfuck his mind permanently. Not after being mentally AND physically raped by this exotic space being.

  Alan gasped when she finally removed her hand from his face. He saw its sneer as it walked away towards the kitchen.

  He fought for breath as he tried to recover. His ears still rang. Though it had felt like an eternity, Alan knew that whatever disturbing interaction that had just occurred had only taken a few moments. But in the narrow space of mere seconds, macabre memories were forged externally.

  He licked his lips and turned to look longing towards his only haven left in the cruel world. He sank back in to the chair, feeling something heavy and hot pressing into his chest. The sensation of being poked repeatedly by a giant’s fat fingers in his sternum expanded to his sides. He wanted to move, to escape, but felt rooted to his spot. Paralyzed by fear, or perhaps some other nefarious force, Alan waited.

  He hated the fact he would take the drink he knew she would bring.

  He detested his abhorrent need.

  Alan flagellated himself for being too weak to resist it.

  When she returned, she seemed to be humming. The tune seemed familiar. High-pitched and rolling, it reminded Alan of a cartoon.

  He began to sweat again. His jaw felt tight His body felt hotter than bologna left all afternoon on the side of a car in the middle of July. It seemed hard to focus, because his vision blurred the images into a surrealist blob of amalgamated colors and the vaguest of silhouettes. The music echoed in his mind. The Valley of Dinosaurs. It was the theme song from a popular cartoon in the 70’s.

  [Deep in the heart of the Amazon…]

  Alan clapped his hands to his ears. Despite his disorientation, despite the proliferation of pain and agony poking at every cell of his being, the words slid easily through the veil of madness.

  The memories.

  Alan began to whimper as he fought the memories. They were too strong. They’d been hiding in dusty boxes, locked tight but not defeated, eagerly awaiting their chance to enact their revenge. Mired in malevolence and misanthropic malcontent, memories manically manifested themselves as
if living wraiths playing in 3-D just behind his eyes.

  In the basement of his father’s house in Montpelier, Vermont, Alan had been sacrificed. He’d lost his soul there. They would take him there, pushing him in the back as he complained, making sure to have all entrances locked and blocked so he could not escape. The stairs were thin, rickety, rotten wooden slabs, and it was cool down there. The walls were stone. A certain unpleasant dampness permeated the air, attacking your nostrils almost as soon as the door opened. The stink itself seemed to possess its own vitality and lifeforce.

  Often, if he complied with their demands without too much protest and actively participated in their research, they would lug a television down so he could watch cartoons. He’d watched so many animated shows, often escaping into them with all the vigor of someone trying to escape trauma. As he grew older and more independent, the associated images cartoons triggered forced him to avoid them. Until now.

  Nothing functional existed in the basement. It became his parent’s secret laboratory to conduct horrid human experiments on their own son. Only a rusted metal chair, restraints, and a single light bulb resided in that foul and nefarious subterranean playground.

  Alan’s parents primarily experimented with his ability to remember. They wanted to know how people blocked traumatic incidents out. So, they exposed him to all manner of horrors. In the name of science.

  His puppy….

  Alan wept. He felt totally unaware of and detached from the disturbing creature and disconcerting reality in his living room. He was in a different time. He’d been transported back, to a place that existed in the shadows.

  The process of returning to reality was gradual. He noticed the memories fading. Slowly, he began to see his living room. The new one, still crowded by boxes, in Klamath Falls. The one where his alien friend was holding him hostage.

  He blinked. His brain felt muddled, as if he’d just awoken from a catatonic state. It was hard to look at Xenobia. The alien knew. It had raped his mind, watching the movies stored there with the foreigner’s fascination. In truth, Alan couldn’t be sure what it was, exactly, that kept his gaze away. Perhaps it was the sense of extreme violation. Or perhaps it was the shame.