by Stanley Gray
Alan looked at Dale. Their eyes met. What Alan saw spooked him. He knew what was coming, just from that look. The truth was harsh. And ugly as sin.
“He’s dead now.” Dale said.
“How did he die?” Alan asked, his voice soft and sympathetic, light as a lullaby.
“Apparently some local cult tortured him and cut up his corpse.” Dale paused, moving his lips. “Except, the Sheriff’s Office and the K.F.P.D. ruled it was natural causes.” Dale suddenly slammed a fist onto the desk, nearly upending it. Alan jumped for the second time in the last hour. The violent sound reverberated through the slam room.
“How does someone end up in three barrels, due to natural causes?” Dale asked.
Alan remained silent. He couldn’t find an easy answer.
“Well, douchebag Douglas with K.F. said that these cult dudes probably tampered with a corpse, but that the incident happened on tribal land or some such horseshit, and that, even if he had wanted to prosecute for some low-level felony, the cult kids were loaded and he didn’t have jurisdiction, anyway.” Dale said.
Alan nodded. Not in agreement, but in appreciation of that stretch of logic. Horse shit, for sure. But credible, cleverly designed horse shit. Someone knew how to practice the ancient art of covering their ass.
“So, you’ve met Douglas. You’ve encountered a few of the locals. Does anyone around here strike you as the intellectual type? Hell, do people around here even strike you as the high school graduate type? I mean, they’re decent, honest, hard-working people, but…” Dale said, allowing the thought to trail off.
Alan knew what the man meant. The rural, agrarian town was populated by people that clung to their beliefs and customs. Nothing wrong about that, but the pace was slower, people waved at each other, and everyone talked about the same stuff every day over coffee at the diner.
“Okay…but, we still have the video? Audio?” Alan asked.
“No. No, boss. We don’t.” Dale said.
Alan blinked repeatedly. His body went stiff. What the fuck do you mean, we don’t have the video? he thought. His face felt flushed, and he looked into the reflection in the computer screen, and saw that he’d gone pale.
“All of the cameras I’ve had access to had some sort of issue. Some allegedly had wires cut,” Dale chuckled, though the sound possessed no mirth. “Of course there was a handy, convenient answer.” “Somehow.” he said, under his breath.
“What was it?” Alan asked, raising one eyebrow.
Dale blinked and looked up. His bloodshot eyes communicated the fatigue burdening him.
“The ‘handy, convenient answer.’” Alan said, motioning with one hand.
The chuckle again. “Apparently some kids have been vandalizing things.”
Dale suddenly got up, pacing in a tight line with his hands behind his back. The rapidity with which he stood startled Alan. “It’s like we’re in the fucking Twilight Zone, man.” he said. Dale possessed a voice and posture that proved intimidating. All of the intangibles of authority emanated from this fleshy, rotund creature. He exuded and personified the cop ethos.
“Who says we’re not?” Alan asked.
He flinched when Dale raced up to the desk and slammed his fists down. The loud report reverberated through the room. Alan’s ears began to ring. After a moment, the bellicose anger flowing in his veins subsided, and Dale began to breathe, looking away. “I’m sorry.” Dale said, while looking away. The big man wiped at his face. His entire upper body moved with the inhalation he took before turning back around.
Sniffling, the man apologized again.
“Sit. Sit.” Alan said, his voice breaking a bit. It hurt to see his friend this way. It also felt unsettling, unnerving in a profoundly troubling way he couldn’t quite describe. From a professional perspective, Dale cracking was very bad news. In their two-man office out on the edge of nowhere, Alan had been banking on Dale holding his shit together.
“Did you have any luck with the Spokane thing?” Alan asked.
Dale’s gaze traced invisible lines on the floor. Time stretched itself as Dale attempted to find his voice.
“Yes.” he said, finally.
Alan waited. But, the silence lingered like the bad aftertaste from sour juice. “Well, that’s good.” he finally said.
“Yeah.” Dale said. He switched positions in his seat, then looked up, directly into the eyes of his superior. “Don’t you think all of this is…weird?” he asked.
Alan glanced around, turning pale. The words held the sting of an accusation. “Of course, I do.” Alan said. He smiled uncomfortably.
“I just figured you’d be freaking out. No one… called you? Told you to shoo fly?” Dale asked.
“No! Of course not. And…” Alan sighed. He turned and looked out the window. “It’s been a rough few days at the office, huh?” he said. The statement was rhetorical, and all he heard was a chuckle in response. “It’s hard to say I’d just defy an order. You know me. I’m…not like you. But we respect each other because we’ve been through a lot together, and I’ve always had your back.” Alan swiveled around to face Dale again. “If they called me, I’d tell you.” He looked away. “If you wanted, I’d fight them on this.” Alan spoke those last words somberly, his voice quiet.
“So, what do we do?” Dale asked.
Alan laughed. He looked into his partner’s face earnestly. “I never had a clue. Been faking it this whole time.” He grabbed up the unused bottle of beer and took a swig. “You think they teach you how to chase aliens at Dartmouth? Did they have classes on E.T. in the Army?” Alan asked.
The sat in contemplative quiet then, each immersed in their own thoughts. Alan felt a pang of guilt. He was deceiving his friend and partner, if only by omission. But, a larger part of him experienced something he’d not felt for some time: genuine curiosity. Scaring or bribing an entire town into forgetting that a fucking spaceship landed there would take some organization. Farmers and ranchers don’t scare easily, and they don’t thirst for money like their pseudo-middle-class cohorts in the cities. Alan wondered what they had. What sort of leverage guarantees near complete stonewalling? It had to be mind-blowing, because the first, last, and only goal of some county cops is to fuck over the feds. Yet not one of them was so much as squeaking.
“I tell you what I’m going to do. We have, what, two more days? Until the big vote? I’m going to try to settle a few cases. Obviously, we won’t be getting anywhere with this crash thing in the next forty-eight. We have a media blackout, anyway, right?” Alan paused long enough to register Dale’s nod. “Okay. Let’s make ourselves ‘essential,’ shall we?” Alan said.
After a few minutes of discussion, they formed a rudimentary plan. Someone had seen something strange near Portland. A few people near Prineville, Oregon posted videos online of what they said were chemtrails, along with a pulsing light. And, even better, some college kid in Eugene had teamed up with an Asian friend who’d moved to Seattle, and they were hustling people in the name of 45’s Space Force. Dale could make an actual arrest for once. Alan wasn’t sure he’d want to be the boy on the other end of that one.
When Dale left, quietly shutting the oak door behind him, Alan reclined in his chair, eyes closed, thoughts collapsing on themselves as darkness reigned.
He woke up, his mouth dry, a treacly trickle of thick saliva formed at the right edge of his lips. The courthouse across the street was bathed in jaundiced light. The ebony sky above told the story of a lost day. Blinking, he got up. Or tried to. He staggered a bit, reaching out to grab onto the desk as he waited out the sense of disorientation. When he felt confident enough, he walked out into the office area. Dimmed lights and quiet met him.
Returning to his office, he opened the min fridge under his desk and found the bottle of Crown Royal he’d stashed in there. It wasn’t his first choice, but he couldn’t fit his Canadian Mist in there. He poured the liquid into a plastic Solo cup, all the way to the rim. Then he began to drink. He felt afrai
d to return home. But he also felt afraid in his own mind.
He didn’t hear it at first. His phone buzzed. Scrabbling to find it, patting his pants and looking around, muttering curses, he tried to follow the distinctive noise. “Aha!” he exclaimed, finding the device hidden under a pile of papers on the edge of his desk. He frowned when he saw who’d been calling him: Sharon.
Alan retreated back into his drink. He sat staring at the slim device. He’d bought the green protective case at the local mall. The sales guy had been an adolescent kid, his face pocked, with a massive, tumescent pimple reflecting light right beside his nose. Alan almost wanted to be that teenager.
He decided to call Sharon back.
It rang three times. Sweat slicked Alan’s hands. He walked in eccentric circles around the entire office, moving his mouth as if speaking the words forming in his heart. He thought about hanging up. He wondered what Xenobia would think. He imagined Sharon’s hurt feelings and her curt, retaliatory rejection.
“Hello?” she said, when she answered.
Alan felt weak. He needed to sit before his knees buckled. Plopping down at Dale’s desk, he tried to say something. His throat seemed constricted. A lump formed there, right behind his Adam’s apple. His body was tight. His mouth was dry.
“Hello?” This second time, Sharon’s voice came out plaintive, confused. From the sniffling on the other end, it seemed as if she’d been crying.
“Hi.” Alan said. He smiled. He couldn’t remember ever being so happy about forming words.
“Alan?” she asked.
“Yeah. It’s me.” he answered.
“Umm…well…hi.” she said.
Alan tugged at the neck of his shirt. A smile spread across his face, despite the circumstances. It was almost as if the woman’s voice were music. A warm melody that transported him home. “You just called me.” he said.
“And you didn’t answer.” Sharon said. There was a hint of hurt evident in her voice.
“Well, I called you back.”
“Are you okay?” Sharon asked.
Alan leaned back in the metal chair, raising the front two legs off the carpeted floor. The indelible image of his third-grade teacher shouting forced him to giggle. She’d seemingly held one passion in life: making sure little boys never leaned back in their seats. The query from Sharon seemed so odd and out of place. But…there was a certain intuitiveness to it. The fact was, Alan Grunke was most definitely NOT okay. And he really, really wanted, hell, NEEDED to tell someone that.
“No, Sharon. I’m not.” he whispered.
A pause ensued. Sharon didn’t hang up, but she waited. Her breathing carried over from the other end. Alan could picture her, and he suddenly wanted her. He wanted her touch, her passion, her compassion, her warmth. He wanted to crawl into her arms and escape the cruel world.
“You want to meet? We can rent a house on the beach. We’d be on the precipice of the world, not even a cell signal, in maybe three hours.” she finally said.
“I have so much work to do.” Alan protested.
“No. You need this. Come on.” Sharon persisted.
After some back and forth, Alan agreed to travel to the beach with a stranger who’d essentially acknowledged she’d been stalking him for years. A stranger he’d fucked after meeting her in a bar. When he hung up, he felt the first moment of release in some time. A pressure seemed to be lifted from his chest. He found himself smiling, and even wanting to laugh. He walked into his office and didn’t even notice the red ridged cup still half full of liquor.
He called his partner on the way to the car. Pausing to reflect on the bright stars dancing on the eternal stage above, Alan wanted to believe that whatever was out there was good. Alan needed to think that the universe harbored an inherent goodness. He’d seen too much evil. His only hope lay in those stars being a little something more than mere specks of exploding gases.
“Yeah.” Dale said when he eventually answered. His voice sounded groggy, heavy.
“Say, sorry to spring this on you, brother, but I’m giving you the option. You can take a few off, paid, while we wait out whatever the dork silos in Washington say. Or, you can work without me for a few days.” Alan said.
“Wait, what?” Dale asked.
“I said,”
“Dork silos?” Dale interrupted, chuckling.
“Yeah. Dork silos.” Alan said. He couldn’t help but smile. The man just wakes up, receives a strange phone call from his boss telling him he can take a free pass from work, and all he can think of is the unusual pejorative.
“You know that dork actually doesn’t mean whale penis.” Dale said.
“You know, I didn’t say it did.” Alan responded, now joining in the fun. It felt good, to laugh. A breeze whispered to him as it sashayed past, flirty and fragrant with the musk of an autumn night. “But, here’s something you may not have known. I once got reprimanded in class, tenth grade, I think, for telling someone to suck a silo of whale dicks.” Alan said.
The other man laughed so hard, Alan had to tear his phone away from his ear. He cast a glance at the device as he waited for the other’s mirth to subside.
“So, wh…what’s the deal? Why are you takin’ off?” Dale asked.
“This…this case, it’s bothering me. I need some time to think, you know?” Alan asked.
After a beat: “Yeah. I do.”
“Alright, my friend. I’ll see you soon.” Alan said, then hung up.
Chapter 7
Sharon Stone drove a Jaguar.
The roof jutted up out of the small thing. Headlights protruding from the front looked like strange bug eyes. But the leather seat was comfortable, and the interior smelled good. Alan sat in the passenger seat and allowed her to complete control. He fell asleep almost as soon as she put the car in gear and started down the road.
He awoke when the car stopped. Bright lights blinded him, and his heart began to race. He shielded his eyes and almost cried out, but stopped himself when he realized he wasn’t being attacked by extra-terrestrials, but instead was at a gas station. Looking over, he saw that Sharon was gone. The keys dangled from the ignition, and an emaciated guy with sallow skin and a perpetual sneer stood at the rear of the vehicle, casually watching the numbers move on the gas pump. When the machine clicked and vibrated, he removed the nozzle then walked away.
Catching a flash of movement in the rearview, Alan looked and saw Sharon emerge from the store, a bag of chips in one hand. Relief spread through him.
She threw the salty snack into his lap as she entered the car. Checking herself for a brief second in the mirror, she started the old Jag up without a word and headed back out onto the empty highway. Uninterrupted darkness blanketed the horizon. On both sides, Alan could glimpse nothing more than an occasional glint of light or the faint silhouette of a fence post. The breeze whistling in through the cracked window made the car chilly.
“Can I roll the window up?” Alan asked, shivering.
“Of course.” Sharon said. She didn’t take her eyes off of the road.
“Umm…how?” Alan asked. He hadn’t been in a car without power windows for a while. He smiled awkwardly and pressed a fist against one eye, wiping the crust away.
The packaging made an annoying crinkling noise as Alan opened his bag of chips. Could’ve brought some liquor, he thought wryly as he munched.
“So, where are we going?” Alan asked. The words came out a bit garbled, and flecks of moist, partly digested potato chip flew out of his lips as he spoke.
Sharon looked over at him. A smile spread across her lips. Something vaguely attractive shined in her emerald eyes. “You are a mess.” she said. Despite the words, the tone was not accusatory. Just a simple statement of fact. Turning her attention back to the dark road unfolding before them, she tapped her fingers on the wheel and hummed.
“So, yeah…where were we going again?” Alan asked. This time he made sure to swallow before letting words escape his lips.
; Sharon laughed. Her laugh sounded like what an angel’s wings would feel like. Soft and magical. “Port Orford.” she said.
Alan twisted in his seat, straining against the belt. For a moment, he wanted to panic. He felt a violent, obscene urge to shout. It was only after a long pause that he collected himself enough to avoid those repugnant desires. A part of him wondered, even as he spoke, how long he’d be able to maintain the composure and self-awareness to take a breath before he screamed. “Sharon…” he paused again. He wanted to make sure he spoke slowly. “Sharon, where is Port Orford? And why are we going there?” he asked.
Sharon stopped the car so suddenly, they both jerked back in their seats. Alan’s cranium bounced against the extended headrest. His vision blurred and his heart rate again tried to turn on its rocket boosters.
But, somehow, the thin little woman remained calm. The middle of nowhere, at night, and she was pacific as a summer breeze. “Port Orford is a small town in Southern Oregon. Have you heard of Coos Bay? Bandon?” she asked.
Alan blinked. WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU TALKING ABOUT, BITCH? He wanted to shout. Pejoratives and obloquies danced on the tip of his tongue. He tried to breathe, but his chest felt tight. He was hot. He simply closed his eyes and waited. Gradually, the anxiety and anger subsided.
“I think I’ve heard of Bandon. I’m…I grew up in New England. I lived in SoCal for several years. This….is my first time in Oregon.” Alan said.
Sharon nodded. “I always wondered why and how you’d managed to avoid this state. So many UFO sightings and Bigfoot claims.” she said.
Alan grunted. Looked out the window. Yep. They were still stopped on the side of some winding rural highway. “Strictly speaking, Bigfoot isn’t in the purview of my office. NASA, remember?” he said, his voice low. After the words registered, he chuckled a bit. “How long have you been following me?” he asked. Then he laughed again. “Is it ironic that I’m stuck in the middle of nowhere with my stalker?” he asked.
Sharon took no offense to the term. “Maybe when we get there, we’ll talk about what it is you really do.” she said.
