A Killer's Secret

by Stanley Gray

  He’d been so helpless and vulnerable then. So out of control.

  [Alan, I know why you’re upset. I just want you to talk to me.] A pause followed, and Alan knew more was coming somehow. [I want you to trust me.]

  Forgetting the fear that dominated him, twisting his insides with burly boxer’s fists, Alan laughed. It seemed too ironic to not laugh at. The fugitive he was harboring, the alien who’d burgled his brain now sought trust. Rich.

  “Why?” Alan asked.

  It seemed like the only response his confused and tired psyche could muster under the circumstances.

  Alan got up, almost tripping because he’d forgotten to put the leg rest up before moving. Shaking his head and glowering at the furniture, he shoved it back into place with one foot. Then he retreated to the window. Barely visible in the darkness sat the lake, a mysterious body of water that offered stunning glimpses of the eternal when crowned by the sun. He needed to think. For the past few days, heck, ever since he’d moved here, he’d been scrambling to keep up. He hadn’t been thinking much, simply reacting. Often on impulse.

  “Why?” he repeated. He turned to face the creature. Something in his demeanor caught the creature’s attention, for it focused its large black eyes on him. Alan thought he saw fear.

  [What do you mean, Alan.]

  Alan took a breath. He returned to the water, looking outwards to fight the internal inundation that threatened his sanity. For several moments, the silence loitered like Alan’s creepy Uncle during the holidays. Finally, his calmness and confidence returned, even if only for a fragment of time. “Why do you want me to trust you? More importantly, why should I trust you?” he asked. He sighed. There was a certain tremulousness in his voice, a certain desperation he couldn’t avoid. The only thing Alan could do in the moment was to try to mitigate the risk. Perhaps he could even put the creature off balance.

  [I need your trust, Alan. You could turn me in. People saw the burned marsh. People know something weird happened.]

  Alan smiled. He pivoted swiftly and walked to the fireplace. He turned it on, hearing the click of the burners as they ignited. He watched the flames for several seconds, hearing their crackle and feeling the reassuring warmth. “It would be surprising if you didn’t already know that many people now believe a meth lab blew up out there.” Alan said. It was true. As Dale and he had been leaving the scene, thoroughly fatigued and disoriented by the strange and powerful effects of the crash site, they’d heard several state troopers joking about it. Once back at the office, a number of reporters had left messages following possible leads on a meth lab explosion. Someone from the Sheriff’s Office had also called, espousing a similar theory.

  So, Xenobia could probably walk out. Scot-free. No strings attached. Sayonara.

  But, she didn’t seem to want to.

  [Why would you think I know this?]

  Alan shook his head, glaring at the blue alien as he marched across the room. He felt safer when he was farther away from her, as if physical distance, even a few feet, could ameliorate the metaphysical powers the creature seemingly possessed. As he walked, he slipped. Falling, he reached one hand out awkwardly to try and catch his fall. But his weight landed fully on his wrist, and this only served to send a grenade into his nervous system, where it exploded. Wave after wave of pain stabbed him.

  Alan collapsed onto the cold floor, pressing his face against the cashew-colored panels as he fought to catch some air. Sticky, gelatinous alcohol still rested on the floor, and he’d just slipped. Xenobia rushed to him, and he stiffened. But she began to hum, and this time, the sounds calmed him. Alan relaxed. As much as a man with a possible broken wrist and being aided by an extraterrestrial can relax.

  Xenobia retreated, and Alan caught himself watching her go with some trepidation. The pain harpooning him a new time every second was too much for him to bear. Whether he trusted her or not, at this point, she was his only option.

  She. She.

  Alan, even amidst grueling physical pain and current circumstances, retained the intellectual capacity to notice the shift in language. Just one word, a pronoun, and his entire worldview could be altered.

  Soon enough, she returned, with ice, alcohol, and pain pills. He gladly used all three. Xenobia managed to tie the ice pack around his hand with medical tape, after she’d figured out the need to wrap the cold stuff in a hand towel.

  Returning to his chair, he had no choice. He couldn’t retreat or escape into the secrets of the shadows that swallowed the lake. He began to cry. Feeling hot and stuffy, he asked, voice quavering, if Xenobia could turn off the fireplace.

  Trying not to move his left arm, he stared at the ice pack awkwardly taped around his wrist. His mind was bereft of thought as he absorbed the pain, looking dumbly at the source. With his good hand, he drained the whiskey she’d poured in a gulp. He licked his lips and glanced at his alien friend. Taking the cue, if she needed one, Xenobia retrieved the glass and returned to the kitchen to fulfill her newfound role of enabler.

  The quiet struck him. Alan was dying inside, his body was broken, his mind felt warped, and he was harboring at the very least a material witness to the crash he was supposed to be investigating. But, yet, things were quiet. The ancients twinkling in the regal jewelry in the ebony midnight vastness didn’t give a single fuck about his problems. No one cared. And that exacerbated the hurt.

  Xenobia served him another round, Canadian Mist. Amber liquid rose to the brim of the stout glass, and not one ice cube disturbed it. Alan smiled, raised the glass and nodded towards her in a silent toast, and drank.

  “Though you were just lecturing me on why I need to stop drinking.” he said. He only slightly slurred his words.

  Water began to puddle underneath his arm. He cursed. When Xenobia ignored him, he shrugged and decided he didn’t want to care about a stain on his chair at the moment. He had bigger pigs to roast.

  His lip trembled, and the desire to unburden himself became too persistent to ignore. The release, the catharsis that this would offer seemed suddenly compelling. Casting a look at Xenobia, he couldn’t help but wonder if he were once again being mentally manipulated by the diminutive cyan creature lurking there. He cleared his throat. “A very important man,” he paused, smiling at himself and feeling silly. But, Xenobia had turned to face him, and her face seemed attentive and open. Her small mouth appeared to form a slight smile.

  Alan coughed into a fist, then reached for the glass of liquor. He grimaced when he realized no intoxicating elixir rested there. Taking a breath, his gaze tracing the ceiling above, he plunged forward. “A Congressman. Name is Paul Harris, if you care.” He shot the alien a look. “Anyway, this guy is a total hard ass. He doesn’t like my agency, and I don’t think he likes me.” Alan said. That last part got to him. For some reason, the fact that this man sought to undermine and defund his employer offered little relevance or concern to him. But, when it turned personal, that created a certain level of antipathy and anxiety he had not necessarily anticipated.

  “This…congressman.” Alan paused again. He stared at Xenobia, a mottled blue little extraterrestrial sitting somehow in HIS living room. “Are you familiar with the term? Where are you from? Do you have a government there?” he asked, rapid-fire.

  A palpable silence descended, hovering in the air between them for what seemed an interminable period. Xenobia could read his mind, but that privilege was not extended back to Alan. He wondered as he waited what it was she was thinking.

  [We come from…well, Crimea Al Petri. But my people live deep underground. Yes, there is a government, though there are those that sometimes…disagree with some of what they do. Or don’t do.]

  Crimea AL Petri? Crimea AL Petri?! Alan scrabbled through dusty file cabinets in his brain, trying to find an answer to the million-dollar question: where the fuck is Crimea Al Petri? The name sounded vaguely familiar, but all he could come up with at that precise moment was a mountain range in what might be the Ukraine. No one coul
d really tell these days, exactly whom owned what in that region of the world.

  [That is the name we use. Historically, the name was much different. A Russian gave us that name for our planet.] Xenobia, though she spoke solely telepathically, somehow managed to convey through inflection how fatigued she felt in the moment.

  Alan took a moment to digest this. He blinked. He’d forgotten where he was in his own story, and he took a second to retrace his steps. He chuckled at his own ironic inability to recall. “I’m getting rusty.” He said under his breath. “Anyway, this congressman confronted me today. He really wanted to know about the suspicious crash that’s starting to get national news attention.” Alan said.

  [Why does this congressman care?] Xenobia asked.

  Alan couldn’t help it. He laughed.

  Struggling up, he wandered around the remaining boxes, navigating his way to the kitchen, where he poured himself another stiff drink. He leaned against a granite countertop and swiftly gulped a third of the tumbler. He looked at the bottle of Canadian Mist, frowning as he noted it was nearly empty. Good liquor was harder to come by in the rural regions of southern Oregon. You couldn’t even buy it bad, cheap spirits at the grocery stores.

  Returning to the main room of his newly acquired Dutch Colonial, Alan slumped into his chair and waited. He relished the moments of quiet. The offered him the illusion of control.

  [Why would a congressman care about a suspicious crash? Here?]

  Alan pondered the questioner more than the question. Part of him felt incredulous that anyone could be so senseless and naïve.

  “What kind of ship was it?” he asked.

  [We have small cylindrical crafts.] Xenobia said.

  “But, you said your group or whatever primarily lives undergound…” Alan responded.

  [Must one travel only by air?]

  Alan smiled. The alcohol flowed through him, and he felt normal again. If being numb was normal. To be honest, he was losing track of what the status quo was. When he was sober, he felt drunk. When he was drunk, he felt…comfortable. The banality struck him. No longer was he consumed by any shock at the sight of this otherworldly being. Instead, he held a dialogue with it, trying to learn its customs and culture.

  [Tell me more about this… congressman.]

  Alan sighed. Took another gulp. “We have two days. Two days.” he said.

  [Two days for what?] Xenobia asked.

  “Two days to find you.” Alan said.

  Chapter 6

  The deadline for a shutdown loomed.

  Alan sat in his black leather executive chair in his small office, leaning back and looking at the courthouse across the street. Nothing about the building struck him as remarkable. A bit quaint, with its brick edifice nestled here in a village on the edge of forest-enshrouded farmlands. But, historic?

  He sighed. Glancing over at the phone, he frowned. It wasn’t doing anything. No one called. Part of him anxiously sought a phone call, something, anything to take away the solitude and silence. When time offered itself to Alan Grunke, he lingered on how fucked he was. He felt alienated and alone in a sea fraught with predators.

  Swiveling in the chair, he asked Alexa to play some Bon Jovi. Then he awakened the beasts hiding in their digital Urak-hai cave deep within the bowels of his computer. Groping for any opportunity, he wanted to learn more about this seemingly desolate wasteland where he’d been dumped. Conspiracy theories forged steel blades in his mind. A part of him wondered if this Klamath Falls had even been involved in any previous alien or other paranormal incidents.

  He jumped.

  Glaring at the door, his breathing heavy, he waited. Another knock broke through his fright and reverie. Alan took a few more moments, gathering himself. After the initial shock wore off, a smile broke across his face. He’d been scared by a knock at the damn door. What was happening to him?

  “Come on in.” he said.

  Dale wasted no time. He rushed in, an impatient but inquisitive frown etched into his face. He gripped a thin manila envelope in one hand.

  “What’s up?” Alan asked.

  Dale looked around, trying to find a place to sit. Seeing a folding chair propped against the wall in the corner, he grabbed it and sat. He sighed.

  “There is absolutely no fucking trace of that crash site.” Dale said. The words emerged like a cautious alley cat. Dale did not meet his boss’ gaze.

  “What do you mean?” Alan asked, genuinely confused.

  “I went back, and there is no black spot. The marsh grasses are obviously shorter, but it’s only noticeable up close, if you’re looking. Better yet, the lab analyses come back…as if nothing were wrong. All we have are witnesses.” Dale said.

  A perceptible pause stretched between them as they loitered on their own thoughts. Alan cleared his throat. “Something tells me you have more.” he said.

  Dale chuckled. It was not a happy chuckle. He bounced one leg and seemed far away, immersed in thought.

  Alan stood. As he did so, he finally caught his interlocutor’s eye. What he saw disturbed him. Scared him. Fear shone in the former Green Beret’s eyes. “Let me go get us something to drink. Okay? Care if I have a beer?” he asked.

  “You’ve been drinking a lot lately.” Dale declared. The words seemed hollow, devoid of emotion.

  Alan could only nod as he retreated.

  When he returned, Dale remained immobile in the uncomfortable chair. His head down, the man appeared dejected, defeated. Circumstances did not impede this man. Alan liked and respected him for his ability to adapt to adversity. Dale possessed a sardonic, rough personality that he often brandished like the weapon it was. Yet, he held a subtle brilliance. On many occasions, Alan’s success could be solely attributed to this man. What he lacked in intelligence, he made up for with sheer persistence. More than once, people had likened the man to a fat, mean bird repeatedly slamming into a window.

  Someone had even drawn up a funny cartoon of Dale in this form, posting it near the coffee maker in the Pasadena office.

  Yet, here the fat, menacing bird was, stunned into submission, no longer willing to run into that glass window.

  “What’s up?” Alan asked softly, returning to his desk. He reached across and placed a cold Samuel Adams on the corner. After a second, he plucked up a doily and slipped it under the beverage. He chuckled at himself, for having a fucking doily in his office.

  Dale looked up at that.

  “You know how hard it is to find Sam Adams here?” Alan asked.

  For the first time in what seemed like ages, Dale smiled. He cracked open the can.

  “Hey, what say you we get our minds off…this, for a minute. We can come back to it. That okay?” Alan inquired. He watched his subordinate with careful interest. The man seemed to lighten up almost immediately at the suggestion.

  They toasted.

  “So, I was just about to look up some fun facts on this little town we’ve come to inhabit. Want to slip around here and investigate with me?” Alan asked.

  Dale shrugged. He licked his lips. Bags pronounced themselves from under his tired eyes, puffy and the color of an eggplant. He got up and circled behind the desk. He didn’t forget the alcohol.

  “Why is that important?” Dale managed to mutter. He smelled bad, as if he’d languished in the same stale clothes for a few days.

  Alan wondered about himself, in that instant. He rebuked himself. How negligent and inattentive had he been, to not notice what surely had been the steady descent of his only trusted friend? His only professional ally? Not wanting to hint that he felt both pity and shame, Alan focused on distracting the other man from whatever it was that troubled him. He fired up the computer, navigated to Chrome, and started searching.

  “I don’t really know. It probably isn’t. Obscure, esoteric information, however, seems to be the only commodity we deal in, here at the illustrious NASA Office of the Inspector General.” Alan said. Then he tilted his head, as if he’d just received an epipha
ny. “Though, a part of me did wonder if the town had been part of any…past UFO or other…unusual activity.” Alan noticed that this caught Dale’s interest. The man shifted, straightening up a bit. His eyes seemed to become clearer at the prospect.

  After a short time, the duo discovered that the area had played host to a number of odd incidents. Just several months earlier, a report had been made with MUFON, and in 2015, a credible case had been filed. The area had long been a hotbed of Bigfoot sightings, as well. The Mutual UFO Network, while certainly not accepted by the mainstream scientific community, still retained more cachet and credibility than many of the other similar organizations. They took pains to thoroughly investigate those claims they deemed worthy. Alan had worked with members of MUFON on several occasions.

  There could be a number of easy, convenient explanations, however. Klamath Falls was the home to the only active air base in Oregon, and had even been an important part of the national air defense system in World War 2. In 2018, it just served as the Air National Guard base, but it still possessed all of the normal military activity that is often mistaken for extraterrestrial activity.

  “What do you think?” Alan asked, after they had looked through several websites.

  “I’d just like to think more about the people here.” Dale said.

  Alan rose an eyebrow. He waited. He knew enough to know that now was when Dale would spill the corn chips.

  “Man…, Alan, Boss…” Dale began. He looked down again. Whatever the thoughts scrambling his wires were, they obviously frightened him. Dale was sweating. “Most of the witnesses…all of a sudden, when I called them back, or tried to talk to them…they said they don’t remember anything. One guy…” Dale paused. A single tear actually escaped his eyes. “He told me that they had told him to shut up.”