A Killer's Secret

by Stanley Gray

  Chapter 15

  Alan could barely see the road.

  Slick with sweat, his hands quaked, making his grip on the leather wheel tenuous at best. He tried to focus on the winding rural road ahead, but found it difficult. He kept replaying the previous night in his mind, and telling himself he had no choice. Xenobia was a parasite. She slowly sucked the life from his soul. The only way to avoid pain was to comply with her wishes, no matter what those might be.

  A honk blared, and Alan turned the wheel at just the right moment. He swerved back into the correct lane, and watched the green Subaru as it raced past, the owner flipping him the bird, face distorted with panicked rage.

  Alan’s vision bounced around. Reality seemed an abstract concept. He no longer trusted his eyes or senses. The traumatic images, their garish, nightmarish qualities enhanced with every replay, were matinee features playing on an endless loop. Their reel formed a heavy lump just at the bridge of his nose, asserting pressure against his forehead and making it nearly impossible to breathe normally.

  Nonetheless, he needed to get ahold of himself. It was crucial that he show up at work, try to maintain the charade.

  People were there, in town, right now, looking for the alien he harbored. The only thing, perhaps, that frightened Alan Grunke more than Xenobia was the idea that people might someday know the extent of his crimes. His cowardice might be exposed. Alan wanted to do anything to make sure that didn’t happen. Now or ever. He felt willing to endure all manner of ignominy if it meant that this chapter in his life, like the one with his parents, remained classified and locked in a secret crypt somewhere for all eternity.

  He leaned forward. “Focus.” he said. Repeating the word in his brain, he cancelled out the imperious, nefarious thoughts. He saw the signs beside the road. The trees and mountains became clearer. Alan sighed. He drove the rest of the way in observance of all normal traffic laws.

  It took a lot, for Alan to walk into his office. He didn’t know what to expect from Dale. All he could do was go for it, at this point. He checked his watch: 1:30. The man might even be out on lunch, if the SAC possessed even a shred of luck. Alan chuckled at the idea. He blinked and glanced again, just to be sure. The time that had passed from his confrontation with Xenobia, the subsequent panic attack, and the pathways to arriving here, at the office had seemed to stretch towards the heavens above. But, only around an hour had passed.

  The office smelled odd. When Alan turned the knob and walked in, the unusual scent greeted his nostrils. Vaguely incense-like, it offered hints of vanilla. Something sweet, but not cloying. It felt pleasant and uplifting, and, despite himself, Alan discovered a smile on his face. He looked around. Dale was not at his desk. Turning the key in his office door, he opened it cautiously, slowly. He expected someone, something to emerge from behind it, from the shadows, to capture him.

  Alan saw dangers in every shadow.

  However, opening the door as far as it would go, nothing rushed out to assail him. There were no mysterious men in black or angry dissidents, no intelligence operatives of paranormal madmen. Only the worst creature in existence confronted him: silence. When things were quiet, Alan had room to think. And his thoughts were not pleasant.

  Shutting the door, quietly, he peeked around. His eyes scanned the room for any evidence of tampering. He looked for cleverly concealed electronic monitoring devices. Kneeling, he checked the walls and baseboards. Alan checked all the plugs and cords to his computers. Shutting the blinds, he stripped down and even checked his clothes.

  Time seemed to stand still. Alan slumped into his big black office chair and tried to think. Lacing his hands behind his head, he leaned back. He closed his eyes. Garish images formed a nightmarish tableau in his befuddled brain. He couldn’t escape them, no matter how hard he tried. They were his curse.

  Alan gritted his teeth and stood. He began to pace.

  Stopping mid-stride, he made a variety of jerky movements in an effort to get into his concealed fridge. Finally popping it open, the SAC grasped the moist, cool exterior of a can of hard cider. Berry. Looking at it for a moment, he couldn’t help but feel a sense of profound disappointment, but also a sense of amusement at the wonderfully ironic fuck-yous fate can sometimes send. An alcoholic cider seemed like an almost dry oasis in the African desert, at this point in his existence. His life was spiraling out of control, and as he crashed and burned, he got…5.5% alcohol by volume.

  He needed something more in the 90% range.

  Shrugging, he popped the can open. The sharp sound of the small tab being pulled back split through the quiet air. It felt vaguely refreshing, just the familiar noise. Alan tilted his head back and guzzled. Bending down, he checked to make sure that this one container was his only allotment. Sighing, he nodded his head in silent confirmation.

  Returning to the ritualistic task of walking back and forth, he tried to find an explanation. He searched for an exit strategy. He blamed his parents.

  He cast aspersions and curses on them. He ridiculed them, taunted them, insulted them with all the filth and force his broken spirit could muster. Harnessing decades of helpless rage, he hurled invective at their names and refracted memories as he marched back and forth, back and forth over the cheap carpet of his government office.

  He jumped and squealed.

  Turning, shoulders hunched, Alan stared at the door. Had he heard a sound? Did someone knock?

  Crouching, Alan navigated around his desk and hid there, barely daring to breathe. His body felt hot. He muttered mumbo-jumbo as tears occluded his vision and obscured his perceptions. He wished life would just hand him a break. A brief hiatus from the constant assaults to his senses.

  Another knock.

  Alan tried to think. If it were the police, they would have likely announced themselves. However, his besieged mind ran through a variety of different scenarios, and as time progressed, these complex conspiracies seemed to grow of their own accord into vibrant vines that wound themselves around and through the stone walls of his mind. He saw intelligence operatives on the other side of that thin wooden door, FBI goons in power suits. He saw lawyers and alien enthusiasts, journalists and doomsday preppers. The only constant in his crazed, cravenly thoughts was malevolence: whoever stood patiently outside, knocking insistently wanted to do him harm.

  Standing, Alan fought for control over himself. If he were about to face his final earthly demise, he would do it on his own terms. He would remain in control of himself and his faculties. That was the silent commitment he made to himself in that dire desperate moment.

  Somehow, this gave him confidence.

  Growing calmer as he waited, Alan began to pace again. He did it slowly, watching the door as if it were some mysterious entity borne from the fiery depths of Mordor. The realization gradually dawned on him as reason returned that the intrusive knocking came from none other than his partner and professional colleague, the man he’d been trying to avoid.

  Alan smiled. Though the gesture did not move into his doleful eyes, he still appreciated the beauty and irony of the moment. He’d been scared by the very person he’d sought out, then sought refuge from.

  Running a trembling hand over the front of his khaki pants, he took a breath. He looked around. Moving forward tentatively, he paused after one step. Assessing his own composure, Alan decided he could trust himself to handle this. The following moments could prove critical to him, and Alan tried to rehearse some of what he would say.

  Opening the door, he stopped. He paled. His jaw fell.

  Music emanated from a small portable cd player. Bright neon banners swept across the top of the room. Sweet and savory aromas danced in the air and hinted of a time when things were pure and innocent. A crowd of people, all smiling, looking directly at him, milled about, shoulders practically touching. As the seconds stretched themselves taut, people began to shift their weight and look at their watched.

  Someone blew on a little paper party favor. It made a funny horn-like
noise. “Happy Birthday.” Dale said, clearing his throat. Then he smiled and raised a red plastic cup. Awkwardness cast aside, people burst into jubilant singing, repeating the basic and familiar lines of the eponymous birthday song.

  Alan blinked. He couldn’t move. He stared.

  He heard them singing. He heard people laughing and clapping. Yet, the scene felt distant, as if he were unwittingly participating as an actor in a horrible C-grade late-night cable t.v. production.

  Bereft, he reflected on the amusing context for this ambush. He’d literally forgot that his birthday was just a few days away. He was about to turn 40.

  Dale walked forward, his face flushed and red. The man smelled like stale horse piss left to rot in the open desert. He’d obviously been drinking. He placed one hefty arm around his partner, the boss, and began to call for quiet. His first few feeble attempts barely rose above the din. However, when he spoke from someplace deep in his belly, the sound blasted through the walls of conversation and brought all activity to an abrupt halt. Everyone in the small, government-chic office looked up and directly at Alan Grunke.

  “This man,” Dale began, looking over at his friend. His breath smelled like the inside of a rhino’s ass. The warm, humid blast of halitosis did nothing to make Alan more comfortable with the situation. “This man, he’s been my friend for…” Dale looked up and moved his lips. He scratched his beard. “How long has it been, Special Agent-in-Charge Alan Grunke?” Dale asked.

  Thankfully, the man took that moment as an opportunity to walk away from Alan. The adrenaline and other emotions roiling through him threatened to make him puke on their own; the man’s hectoring body odor didn’t help.

  “I…” Alan began.

  Dale waved a dismissive hand in the air. He walked back to the periphery of the gathered crowd, merging with them. Alan scanned the various faces, trying to place anyone here. He couldn’t. He tried. One woman with pale skin and large freckle patches near the bridge of her nose looked vaguely familiar, in the odd way people at the grocery store seem to sometimes resemble someone from high school. A tall, emaciated man with a solemn, Lincoln-esque demeanor wore a John Deere green mesh John Deere hat and leaned against a wall in the corner, sipping free liquor and watching the others.

  Alan wondered, as he heard the drone of Dale’s voice without deciphering the exact words he spoke, if this were some sort of ruse. An elaborate set-up. He smiled. If it were, they’d gone to great lengths to try and trick him. Trick him into what?

  Alan gradually relaxed. No one was going to kill him or arrest him, though some people would probably come over and pester him with embarrassing questions. He felt relieved, in many ways. While he hated parties and mingling, birthday parties could be a great way to avoid answering questions about the dead hooker he’d left in a truck stop parking lot.

  Or the kidnapped people he held in his house.

  Or, you know, Xenobia.

  Stumbling forward when bidden, Alan muttered some words he hoped sounded at least coherent. People smiled and did the little polite half-clap thing, so he assumed that whatever words had slithered out worked. Feeling a nudge bordering on a shove in his back, Alan moved towards the cake. A large, beautiful thing covered in white frosting, the message on the top, scribbled in blue cursive, read: Happy birthday boss. A small silver serving knife rested on a blue napkin next to the ornate desert. Shuffling forward, he cut out a slice, depositing it onto a paper plate with red and yellow leaves flowing around the edges.

  People again clapped.

  Alan felt a gnawing urge. He wanted to know who these people were. Why were they here? None of them gave a damn about him, how old he was, his prostate, or what flavor of ice cream he preferred.

  Instead of asking or indulging his persistent curiosity, Alan served himself some ice cream. Retreating into the corner where the tall skinny guy stood, he nibbled on the cake. He smiled. Grunted. Flavors swirled around on his tongue in an exotic, nearly erotic set of movements designed to stimulate the senses. Rich, warm chocolate mingled with mint and something crunchy. He nodded his head.

  Even criminals possess a weakness for good chocolate.

  “Dale!” Alan called out. People quieted down a bit, because this was one of the few words birthday had spoken during the event, and perhaps they were the only words that came unbidden. Dale looked over. Something shined in the man’s eyes, though Alan couldn’t quite identify what that something was. “Where did you get this? The chocolate is amazing.” he said.

  Dale stared dumbly for a second or two, then shrugged. He smiled. Navigating through a narrow path in the crowd, which he created with gentle nudges and general utterances, Dale worked his way to Alan. “I actually didn’t get it. This gentleman did.” Dale nodded in the direction of the quiet lanky guy.

  The man turned to Alan and smiled. His teeth appeared too perfect. Something about him seemed…off. He wore drab clothing that made him appear simple, but his skin looked so unblemished, it almost shined. He possessed a certain innate confidence that bled through into his movements and mannerisms.

  Despite the outfit that made him look like some sort of farmer, the man had perfect hands. Alan looked at them. The tall guy had never done a second of manual labor in his life. Those were the long, slender, nearly effeminate hands of someone who knew the many pleasures of luxury well. His teeth gleamed, sitting even and straight in his mouth. His boots were not dusty.

  “And who might you be?” Alan asked.

  “He’s Lars Haugen. Owns the biggest ranch here in the county.” Dale supplied.

  A moment of awkward silence ensued. Dale and Alan exchanged a glance. The other man made no apparent move to respond to them, other than looking at them with vaguely creepy eyes. Those blue eyes seemed vacant, in a disturbing way.

  “Thank you for the gift.” Alan said. He moved a step closer to Lars. The man shook him. More so than the surprise party, perhaps even more so than most of the recent events constantly berating him in his mind’s background. He waited, but the man still did not break his silence.

  “Uh, Lars here just didn’t want any of the town’s…uh, recent visitors to go traipsing onto his property or hurting any of his animals. So, he heard we were here…” Dale interjected. He cleared his throat.

  Alan turned to his subordinate. “Did Lars call you himself?” he asked.

  Dale blinked. Paled. The alcohol coupled with the sudden awkwardness of the situation gave him pause. “No.” he admitted. He shook his head and looked down.

  Alan felt a little sorry for Dale, though he didn’t quite let on. Sometimes emotional discomfort could be advantageous. And, Alan reflected as he watched his friend, it sure can be helpful to have a good diversion after you kidnapped a bunch of people in a public space. “Mr. Haugen, did I pronounce that right? Haw-gen?” Alan asked, turning his attention back to the bland and silent actor. This time, Lars nodded. A barely perceptible shift of the head.

  Alan nodded, too. He tried to think. He didn’t have much time, but he felt strongly that he needed to know the true intentions of this charlatan. He couldn’t help but feel, the sensation hot and tingly as it crept around on the tender flesh on the back of his neck, that this…entity might be from another world. If that seemed odd, he had an alien at home to remind him that it might not be.

  “Lars, would it be okay if we…went into my office? We could talk…a little more privately.” Alan said.

  To his surprise, Lars nodded again.

  Dale reached over and grabbed Alan’s shoulder. The man’s grip seemed strong, firmer than usual, and a glimmering trickle of sweat showed on the top of the agent’s upper lip. “I can go,”

  “No, I’ll be fine. But, thanks.” Alan said, interrupting. He reached up and removed the man’s hand from his shoulder and began to walk away.

  Once the din of the party had been reduced to a ball of white noise, Alan allowed himself to relax a bit more. He sat in his chair and waited. He watched his interlocutor while the time pa
ssed. Probably close to 7-feet, the man leaned forward a bit as he sat. His knees almost rose up to his chest. Lars seemed to possess an innate inability to blink.

  When the man removed his hat, his hair seemed fake. Thin and almost plastered on.

  Alan finally rose an eyebrow and shrugged, then retreated into his computer as he continued to wait. He wasn’t to going to make the first move, not with something as potentially important as this. The first person to speak in a negotiation is often the loser. Though he wasn’t exactly a pro in such matters, Alan had been around long enough (40 years, in fact) to know better.

  When the man spoke, Alan shifted in his seat. He raised a fist to his mouth to cover the inadvertent reaction he made. A harsh, gravelly monstrosity, the man’s voice seemed to have been scraped off the bottom of a city park custodian’s shoe. It felt repulsive in an ineffable way.

  “My name is not Lars Haugen. I am not a rancher. I think you know this.” the person said.

  All Alan could think to do was nod. He waited. It seemed he was doing that a lot lately, and he was beginning to get tired of it. Waiting connoted a lack of control.

  “I need to know if anything escaped that crash site.” the person said.

  “I can’t tell you that, sir. Is it okay? To call you sir? I don’t know your name, much less your preferred pronouns.” Alan said.

  Not-Lars leaned forward. He smiled. “You can tell me. You will tell me. And, in answer to your question, I am neither male nor female. I am.”

  “Nothing escaped.” Alan lied. “Are the others…” Alan motioned with his head towards the crowd still gathered in the lobby. “Are they…like you?” he asked. He stood and began pacing. He wished he had another drink. He could use a few shots at the moment.

  Not-Lars titled his head. He seemed to be appraising Alan. “Yes.” He finally said. Then, without preamble, the man got up. The movement seemed fluid, with a certain grace he hadn’t exhibited in front of Dale. “We’ll be in touch.” he said, turning to stare directly into Alan’s eyes. Then he changed his facial expression almost instantaneously, plopped his bumpkin hat back on his head, and faded back into the milling group.