Roswell's Secret

by Vannetta Chapman

  “I happen to think he made a mistake.”

  Lucy knew she should shut up, could still hear her mama’s voice ringing in her ears. Like every time before, she chose to ignore it. “When he sees your bloodshot eyes, he might agree.”

  Dean didn’t answer. He kept the truck in the left lane and glared out at the desert landscape.

  Ω

  Dean had expected her to talk the entire way. He’d expected her to yell at him the entire way. So he was surprised when, ten minutes outside of Albuquerque, she fell asleep. He shrugged. At least one of them would be rested when they reached Roswell, which, at the rate he was driving, they would do in record time.

  Ninety minutes later, he pulled into a station in Vaughn, got out and slammed the door. After a pit stop, he picked up a donut and coffee. He practically collided with Lucy when she exited the ladies’ room.

  “For me?” She eyed him warily.

  “Actually, it is.”

  “Peace offering?”

  “Nope. It’s breakfast. You’re driving.” He thrust it into her hands and vanished. By the time she climbed into the truck, he’d sunk into his seat and pulled his cap low enough to block out most of the sun and all of her.

  “If you weren’t hung over, you wouldn’t be so cranky.”

  “I don’t recall asking you, Doc.”

  “A medical observation,” Lucy said. Gravel flew as she floored the accelerator.

  “This truck is an eighty-two. It has to last us two weeks. You might go easy on her.”

  “Her? Why do men insist on calling trucks her? Trucks, ships, planes. They’re all female. Why?”

  “Because we like the illusion of control over something feminine. Did you need to hear me say that?” Dean scowled at her and tried not to envy her energy.

  “Yeah. I did. Thank you.” Lucy smiled as she took a big bite of the chocolate donut.

  “Can I sleep now?”

  “Absolutely. Sleep away.” She reached for the radio, set the volume low. George Strait whispered through the cab.

  But violin and a steel guitar weren’t the last things Dean heard before sleep claimed him. The sound following him into his dreams was the light, somewhat off-key singing of Lucinda Brown.

  LUCY HAD PLANNED ON waking Dean when they reached Roswell, but she didn’t have to. Twenty minutes outside of town he sat up, rubbed his hands over the stubble on his face, and started briefing her. The man must have a fully functioning GPS in his head.

  “The place we work, E.T.’s Bar, is on the southwest side of town, near the Hondo River. You’re a friend of my sister’s who needs a job. Sally, the lady who owns the place, happens to be a hand short on waitresses—”

  “Tell me we didn’t kill someone.”

  Dean gave her a wolfish grin. “You’re confusing us with the FBI. We work for Immigration Services. We don’t kill citizens. We relocate them.”

  “We deported her?”

  “Jill is fine. She’d been talking about moving to the west coast for months. Winning a mid-range lottery prize last week was all the push she needed.”

  “The statistical odds of someone winning the lottery at the exact moment we need them to would be approximately...”

  Dean reached into the back seat and pulled a short-sleeved, button-up shirt off a hanger. “Save the brain energy, Doc. We planted the winning ticket, and don’t let the ethics worry you. It cost the good taxpayers a lot less than your average relocation deal.”

  Lucy was worrying all right, but not about the ethics of relocating innocents. Dean had begun to undress in the truck, and Lucy thought she might drive off the blacktop.

  He had pulled off his jacket, revealing a white undershirt and an antique shoulder holster—the kind even her father didn’t wear anymore. At the moment it held no weapon.

  The holster she could ignore. The biceps she couldn’t. He was sculpted better than the plastic model in med school that the students had called Mr. T.

  Dean reached across her to pull down her visor. Clipped to the visor was a holster holding his weapon, which he removed and placed on the seat between them after ejecting the clip. When he brushed against her, goose bumps danced down Lucy’s arms. Ridiculous. She was a doctor, and she was a government agent. She refused to be interested on an emotional or physical level by this burned-out has-been.

  He’d struck her as scrawny earlier, but now that she’d seen him without the jacket, she needed to revise her medical opinion. The man had more muscles than someone so old and burned-out should have.

  “You’re staring, Doc.”

  Holding a dare, blue eyes paused inches from brown ones. Lucy jammed her sunglasses back on and shifted her attention to the road. “If I’m staring, it’s at that ancient Glock. Why not carry around a rock to whack people with instead?”

  He gave her a genuine grin—one without sarcasm or weariness—startling her. She must be exhausted. Maybe she could blame the desert heat. Possibly he’d drugged her coffee.

  Or perhaps she’d misjudged him.

  That was a disturbing thought. She continued to steal glances at him as he checked and holstered his weapon. No, he might not be as homely as an ugly pup, but, grin or not, the man was still completely devoid of personality. Lucky for her this op would only last ten days. She could tolerate him that long—she’d had colds last longer.

  She’d have to think of him like the old stray dog her family had taken in the summer she’d turned fifteen. The mutt had shown up the first day of summer break, looking like he hadn’t had a meal in weeks. Stayed around long enough to get some meat on his bones and steal their hearts. By the time the leaves changed to gold and drifted to the ground, Jake had shoved on. There was a lesson in that.

  “You look like you’re chewing on something, Doc. I worry when you stop talking.” Dean took off the holster, put on the shirt and buttoned it. He slid the old holster rig back on, then slipped the clip into the Glock and the Glock into the holster. The brown bomber jacket sat like icing on a freshly baked cake.

  “You’re going to wear a jacket?” Her voice actually cracked. Sweat trickled down the small of her back, and she tried to convince herself the air conditioner needed service. She’d always been a sucker for old leather jackets. “It’s obvious you’re carrying. No one would wear a jacket in this heat.”

  “A/C is freezing at E.T.’s. Besides, most folks in Roswell carry a firearm. It’s not a problem with the sheriff so long as they have a permit.” He settled back into the corner and studied her. “Tell me you declared and brought your weapon on the plane.”

  “Of course.”

  “Let me see it.”

  “No.”

  “Let me see your weapon, Agent Brown.”

  “Now you’re being nosy and personal.” Lucy felt decidedly cranky. What she could use was a glass of ice water.

  “Are you always so stubborn?” She changed the subject. “Tell me more about my job.”

  Dean tugged on his cap, a sure sign she’d irritated him. It instantly improved her mood. “I told you about Sally.”

  “And that Jill won the lottery.”

  “Right. So Sally’s walking around, spitting nails and whining about how hard a time she has finding good help,” Dean continued. “I mention my little sister’s college roommate might be looking for a summer job. I let her beg a little, then told her you might be willing to come through this way since you’ve always been fascinated with UFOs.”

  “I what?” Lucy’s voice went up a full octave.

  “You know everything there is to know about UFOs, Doc. Which is why you’re willing to come to Roswell for a waitressing job paying minimum wage. The low pay also explains why you’re bunking in the town’s worst motel. The good news is it looks out across the alley behind the bar.”

  “I’m in the worst motel?”

  “Don’t worry. The sheets are clean. The more important point is, we can watch that back alley from our rooms.”

  “Great. Clean sheets and a bac
k alley view.”

  “Commander Martin thinks E.T.’s might somehow be involved. That’s why he set up our cover there. It’s a central hub of the town. Either someone who works there, or someone who frequents the establishment is involved or knows information we need to attain.”

  They drove past the Roswell city limit sign, complete with a little alien symbol. Lucy paused at the first stop sign long enough to roll down her window and pour out the remains of her coffee. The hot, fresh air revived her, so she left the window down, proceeding through town without asking directions. She had punched E.T.’s into her phone’s map program while Dean talked. She did love new gadgets; her cell phone wasn’t even available on the market yet though one could be procured if you knew the right people. Boasting 4G it was faster and contained more memory than anything you could buy at a box store.

  “Do I have time to unpack before my first shift?” She thumbed through the display with one hand and drove with the other, noting his look of aggravation.

  “What are you doing?”

  Why did it bring her such satisfaction to irritate this man?

  “Playing with my new maps program.”

  “Well turn it off.”

  “What?”

  “You heard me. Give it to me.” Dean slid to the middle of the truck and tried to grab the unit, but Lucy switched it to her left hand and held it out the window.

  “Are you crazy, Dreiser? What is wrong with you?”

  “Don’t you know they can track you with those things?”

  “Right. By they do you mean the bad guys or the aliens?”

  “Turn it off.”

  “Because I have to tell you, at the moment, I’m more freaked out by you than I am by terrorists or little green men.”

  As they argued, Dean continued trying to grab for the phone, but Lucy refused to give it up. Every time Dean reached for her hand, Lucy jerked the wheel. A few locals stopped and stared as the truck lurched down Main Street, jumping back-and-forth across the median line.

  Dean finally settled back to his side and lowered his voice, tugging so hard on his cap, Lucy feared for his head.

  “Look, Doc. As we established, you’re new. Maybe the instructors didn’t get around to mentioning you can’t carry around every new gadget on the commercial market. If you can find your position via satellites then you can be tracked the same way. Now turn it off.”

  Lucy spied E.T.’s Bar out the front window of the truck and thumbed off her cell. “We’ll talk about this later,” she said sweetly as she parked the truck a few doors down.

  Dean got out and slammed the door. “You’re right. We will.”

  “When’s my shift?” Lucy grabbed her backpack and met him at the front of the truck. She placed the keys in his hands.

  “You’re on at three, beautiful.”

  Lucy refused to respond to the compliment, though her heart did jump. A purely physiological reaction. Her brain knew he only meant to bait her. “Then I have plenty of time to unpack. Where’s my room?”

  “Don’t worry your pretty little brain about unpacking. I imagine once we talk to Commander Martin and get this thing cleared up you’ll only be here one night. Why don’t you go shopping or something?”

  Instead of answering, Lucy stepped up to the wooden boardwalk. They’d undoubtedly been added to give the place an authentic feel, but they didn’t. Something wrong lurked here. When she glanced toward the door of E.T.’s, she thought of the old western movies she watched as a girl.

  Sunlight from the summer morning spilled across the planks, but a part of her mind saw blood splashed across the boards. Cold crept down her spine, and she shivered in spite of the heat. Her mother would say someone had walked over her grave. Lucy pushed the premonition away, denied again the gift her family insisted she had. Her mother said it was a gift from God, that she should embrace it. Lucy had gone to graduate school instead.

  She made her way back to where Dean waited beside the truck. She stopped where she could look him straight in the eyes. Stupid cowboy with his old weapon and his outdated attitudes. She would not be run off her first assignment by a relic. “You don’t decide when I leave. Okay, Dean? You promised me a job for the summer, and you know how college girls need summer money.” She stepped closer, into his personal space.

  Show no weakness. Never back down.

  “I’ll go meet Miss Sally now. Then I’ll be back for my suitcase. I’ll rest and unpack. Everything.”

  She gave him her best smile, but didn’t allow it to carry to her eyes. Then, she stomped down the boardwalk toward E.T.’s.

  Dean watched Lucy storm into E.T.’s, then sagged onto an old bench in front of a closed antique store.

  He could handle the concept that Lucy Brown was the smartest agent on the boardwalk—possibly smart enough to save a lot of lives. Lives lost if it were left up to him. Yes, he did realize what was at risk.

  What he struggled with sitting in the August morning was the dead girl’s image he’d seen yesterday morning superimposed over Lucy’s features. Lucy had no idea how vulnerable she might be. Why did he have to draw her for a partner? What had Martin been thinking?

  Brains should come in a bigger, tougher package. Had he ever been so young? He was only thirty-five. But at Lucy’s age, he’d been an agent for three years. Been in Barcelona, picking up pieces of a plane, bagging bodies. Since then he’d taken two hits in the leg in Mexico. Recovered hundreds of bodies in Virginia.

  How could he train her, watch her back, catch the terrorists and be on guard against a weapon he couldn’t see?

  Both Doctor Kowlson and Commander Martin claimed Lucy was the best. He needed to trust them. In spite of what he’d said to her, he really had no choice. Truth was he needed her. It hurt to admit that. He didn’t mind needing his partner, but he did mind being attracted to her.

  The woman had no idea how gorgeous she was. Dean stood, started toward the truck and found himself yearning for the good old days—a sure sign this job had aged him. What he’d give to have Aiden Lewis for his partner again. And wouldn’t his friend be laughing at him now.

  No. He wouldn’t laugh about what waited in the desert. More importantly, he would be in Roswell on the first flight if Dean placed the call—with or without Martin’s orders. Their friendship went deeper than USCIS. Aiden remained Dean’s ace in the hole, and he hoped he wouldn’t have to play it. Aiden was home, safe with his wife and baby. Dean didn’t want to bring him here, not considering what he’d seen at White Sands.

  But what to do about Lucy? Maybe he had underestimated her. If he could talk the cell phone out of her hands. If he could see what kind of gun she packed. If he could convince her there was a difference between a disease in her lab and a biological weapon that ravaged the body of a young girl. A young girl and how many others? For Dean suspected there had been other victims already.

  He needed answers, but he realized he would find none standing next to the old truck.

  The country rapping of Big & Rich interrupted his heavy thoughts. Three of Sally’s regulars—Bubba, Billy, and Colton—pulled up to the curb in a tricked out truck that belonged in a commercial instead of on Roswell’s Main Street. Spotlights were fitted over the cab, guards protected the front lights, and of course it sported oversized tires. Bubba and Billy opened the door and nearly fell out before the noise from the diesel engine had died down.

  A month on the job had been long enough to learn Sally’s regulars—especially these three.

  “Why ain’t you working, Dreiser?”

  “Yeah. It’s way past drinking time, and we’re ready to drink!”

  Dean resisted the urge to point out most of E.T.’s patrons were eating breakfast. As he watched, Bubba threw a Coors can into the back of the truck. He and Billy lumbered up the stairs, laughing and weaving toward E.T.’s. Colton trailed behind and stopped outside the door to answer his cell phone. A look of cold anger passed over his features before he disconnected, crammed the phone back in hi
s pocket, and entered the bar.

  Dean would bet every dollar in his wallet that not one of those boys had celebrated his twenty-second birthday yet. Hopefully, they’d have a few brain cells left on the day they finally decided to grow up.

  With a shake of his head, he trudged to the back of his truck and pulled out Lucy’s suitcase, then made sure the cab was locked up.

  He’d just secured the toolbox which spanned the width of the back when he heard gunshots.

  They’d come from E.T.’s.

  DEAN INCHED THROUGH the door, hand on his weapon though he hadn’t drawn it. One look inside told him he wouldn’t need to. Sally stood behind the bar, sawed-off shotgun resting against her slim hip, cigarette dangling from her lips.

  Lucy lay on the floor, pinned by Billy who was yelling, “Don’t fire, Sally.”

  The boy was hopeless. Lucy began to inch her hand toward her ankle holster. Dean paused long enough to make eye contact, shake his head once. Then he stormed across the saloon, trusting Sally wouldn’t shoot him. “Move off her, Billy. You could have broken every bone in her body.”

  “It’s not my fault, Dean. Sally’s the one who brought out the shotgun. I didn’t even do anything.”

  “Stop your whining.” Sally said. “Dean, get those boys out of my bar. I told them not to show up here again drunk and waving their weapons around. I won’t have it. Next time, I won’t pull out a shotgun with blanks.”

  Dean wanted to laugh. Instead he pulled Billy to his feet and pushed him toward the door, then reached down for Lucy. “You all right?”

  The expression in her eyes changed from alarm to anger to laughter in a matter of seconds. They reminded him of the one time he’d watched the Northern Lights play across the sky—only this was within his arm’s reach. As he helped her up, Dean realized in the space of a breath he could fall for this woman.

  She nodded and brushed off her pants.

  “Bubba, Colton. You’re out of here too.” Dean retrieved the two guns from the table near where the boys had dropped to the floor. “I’ll walk you to Joe’s Coffee Shop. Colton, hand over the keys to your truck. You can pick everything up from Sheriff Eaton later this afternoon.”