Roswell's Secret

by Vannetta Chapman

  Colton appeared ready to argue as Dean held out his hand and waited. Dean had him by three inches and twenty pounds. Sally still held the shotgun. Colton was stubborn, but not stupid. He shrugged and dropped the keys in Dean’s palm.

  Dean focused on the last of the stooges.

  “I only wanted to show how I could shoot the can off the top of Billy’s head,” Bubba whined, but he handed over the last of the pistols. He added as an afterthought, “I’ve done it before.”

  “Yeah. We even practiced before we got here.” Billy chimed in.

  “I bet you did.” Dean nudged the three boys out the door. Behind him, the customers in E.T.’s resumed their breakfast.

  “You sure you’re all right?” Sally asked.

  “Of course. I have a brother.” Lucy extended her hand. “I’m Lucy. Dean’s friend.”

  Sally shook her hand, then stepped behind the counter to store the shotgun. “Not the best way to see the place you’re going to spend the summer. Those boys are about the worst we have though. In general, people here are harmless.”

  Lucy looked out across the room. Tables remained full. Televisions played softly, running morning shows. No mad rush for the door in spite of the ruckus. “We run a good daytime crowd. Nights stay even busier. Not a lot to do in Roswell. As temperatures rise, folks get restless, come in for a drink or a game of pool.” Sally motioned to a bar stool, shook a cigarette from her pack, and lit a fresh one.

  Lucy wondered about the smoking in public ordinance, but decided it was best not to ask. She hadn’t officially been hired yet.

  Of average height, Sally looked to be between fifty and sixty. Gray hair cut in a no nonsense shag. Thin and wiry. Something told Lucy she’d have a struggle taking her in a fight. The woman had the demeanor of a lone wolf. Or maybe she’d gotten the wrong impression since her first image of her new boss had been with a Remington in her hand.

  “Haven’t had to pull out my shotgun in months. Most of the time, putting it on the counter would be enough, but those boys have skulls thicker than the boardwalk out there.”

  “Will the sheriff have to file a report?”

  “For shooting blanks over their heads?” Sally inhaled the nicotine as if it were sustenance. She blew out the smoke with great reluctance. “If Sheriff Eaton had to investigate every time someone discharged a weapon in Roswell, he wouldn’t have much time left to do his job, now, would he?”

  Sally stopped a young waitress headed out with an order. She sent her back to the kitchen to retrieve an extra round of drinks for the table she was tending.

  “Does Roswell have a lot of crime?” Lucy asked.

  “No. We have a good town here. Roswell’s small with a small police force. Folks don’t want to fork over more money for a larger one either. But what with the tourists claiming they’ve been abducted by aliens, hikers getting themselves stuck in spots they have no place going to begin with, and the people who honestly need help—well, Roswell’s finest stay busy enough.” Sally inhaled one last time, then crushed out the cigarette. “No, I don’t suspect Sheriff Eaton will be by here unless it’s for dinner. Go and unpack. Your shift doesn’t start until three.”

  Lucy nodded, slid off the barstool, slipped her backpack over her shoulder.

  “Why Roswell?” Sally asked.

  “Pardon?”

  “Why would a young gal like you want to spend the summer in the middle of the desert?”

  Lucy peered into those steel gray eyes and knew Sally had seen and heard it all. She’d spot a phony a mile away. For all Lucy knew, Sally could be one of the perps she had come here to apprehend—one of those intent on ruthlessly killing thousands. She had trouble imagining the woman in front of her consorting with terrorists, but what had Dean said? Commander Martin suspected E.T.’s.

  The sounds and smells around her crystallized—bacon frying, babies crying, someone laughing at a joke. Lucy realized she’d jumped into her first covert operation with both feet, and she could hear her mama’s voice whispering, “In for a penny, in for a pound.”

  She pulled her long hair behind her shoulders, then glanced around as if to assure herself Dean was still outside with the three musketeers. She stepped closer to Sally so her low voice could be heard over the noise of the morning crowd, close enough to smell the cigarette smoke in the woman’s hair.

  “Dean thinks I’m here because I’m interested in UFOs.” She paused, let Sally consider and discard the notion. “The truth? I’ve listened to my roommate Laurie talk about her brother Dean for three years now. I decided he might be worth checking out.”

  Sally’s eyes squinted. “Little thing like you, shouldn’t have to come to the middle of nowhere looking for a date.”

  Lucy cinched the backpack up on her shoulder, stuck her bottom lip out in a pout she knew made her look five years younger. “College boys. I’m sick of college boys. I figured I’m old enough for a man and a little adventure.”

  “I’ve got enough girls already staring at Dean Dreiser. Lord knows, I don’t need one more.” Sally reached for her pack of Marlboros, lit one, then pointed the smoldering end at Lucy. “I don’t approve of the help sniffing around each other, but what you do on your own time isn’t my business. Be sure, while you’re on the clock, you keep your mind off Dean Dreiser and your eyes on your work.”

  “I can do that.” Lucy turned to leave and bumped into Dean. “Miss Sally told me I should go unpack.”

  “I’ll carry your things.” His grasp was firmer than necessary.

  As they left the bar, Lucy thought she heard Sally say, “Trouble. All I ever get these days is more trouble.”

  Dean let go of her arm as soon as they stepped out on to the boardwalk.

  “You want to explain why Sally told you to keep your mind off me?” Dean stepped to the wooden railing, surveyed the street.

  Lucy stayed at the door as if considering her answer, then pushed on her sunglasses and stepped up beside him. “She did?”

  “You know good and well she did.”

  “Maybe she doesn’t want any competition. Maybe she likes you, Dean.”

  “Don’t play stupid with me, Lucy.”

  “I’m not playing stupid. Lots of older women are interested in middle-aged men.” She lowered her sunglasses and smiled.

  “I leave you alone for five minutes. You manage to get flattened by one of the biggest goons in Roswell and anger our boss.”

  “I don’t think I angered Sally. I think she likes me.”

  “She was smoking.”

  “So?”

  “She’s trying to quit.” Dean grabbed the suitcase he’d left beside the front door and strode down the boardwalk. He didn’t look back to see whether Lucy followed.

  “She smoked the entire time we talked.”

  “Exactly.”

  “Oh.”

  E.T.’s sat half a block from the corner of Main Street and West Mountain View Road. Dean turned left at the corner, realized Lucy’s footsteps weren’t echoing behind his, and doubled back.

  She stood at the railing, gazing out over the wide open vista that lay ahead. “That’s quite a view, Dean.”

  “Yeah. I suppose it is.” He tried to see it through her eyes—Guadalupe Mountains and Texas in the distance, Hondo River directly below, the desert rising up to meet The Roswell Industrial Air Center to their left. It all shimmered with heat and seemed to promise him death and danger. But he supposed Lucy saw adventure in the view.

  He glanced down when she reached out and casually touched him. Willed himself not to jerk away from the exquisite, brown hand on his arm. Tried to pretend it didn’t faze him.

  “It’s beautiful, Dean. Roswell looks so plain, but that is magnificent.” Brown eyes found his, smiling, causing him to forget for a moment why they had come to this place.

  “Maybe the view will make up for your room.” Dean led the way the last half block to Josephine’s Guest House.

  Josephine’s was a three-story, frame structure
with a first floor wraparound porch, second floor balconies, and, on the third, a widow’s walk. It had seen its heyday fifty years ago. Paint struggled to hang on in some places and had given up in others. Attached to the building’s west side, a one-story addition of individual rooms stretched to the property line.

  “Josephine could use a carpenter,” Lucy said.

  “Our rooms are toward the back.”

  They bypassed the main house via a side parking lot where every slot was empty. Anyone staying at Josephine’s tended to work during the day—another major benefit in addition to the back alley view.

  “When Roswell became alien capital of the world, Josephine began adding on rooms and renting them out. She tended to forget things like building permits.”

  He led Lucy through a small breezeway and back out the other side to the very end of the building.

  “Our rooms are the last ones?” Lucy asked. “We don’t want to be cornered in.”

  Dean stopped in front of room twenty-seven.

  “You’re twenty-seven?”

  “Right.”

  Lucy cinched up her backpack. “Where am I?” Dean unlocked his door. They stepped into an interior hallway. An arched entrance to the left led to his room. He nodded toward four stairs to the right.

  “My room is down there?”

  “Room twenty-seven B.”

  “I don’t even get my own number?”

  “Your room isn’t big enough to need its own number.”

  Lucy held out her hand, and Dean handed over the key. Before he could explain further, she’d stomped ahead of him down the four stairs. Already having glimpsed her Spanish temper, Dean decided to give her a minute. He waited until he heard her unlock the door, let her clomp around the room which took less than a minute, then carried her bag down.

  She stood in the middle of the ten-by-ten room, hands on hips, glaring at him. Slowly she pivoted, taking in the twin bed, single dresser, small closet, and bathroom. A poorly-covered armchair and stool were positioned next to the bed. A battered desk and straight-backed chair completed the room’s furniture. The only light came from a two-foot window which ran along the top of the south wall.

  “You have to be kidding.”

  “I’m afraid not, beautiful.”

  “How big is your room?”

  “Bigger than yours.”

  “I can’t even enter mine without going through yours.”

  “Exactly.”

  “It’s like I have a gate keeper.”

  “You have a problem with the way I’m doing things, Agent Brown?”

  “I don’t need a chaperone.”

  “It so happens I think you do.”

  “So we have to do everything your way?”

  “Yeah, we do. Get used to it. If you don’t like it, then take your skinny doctor’s self back to Albuquerque International. There are plenty of jets headed east.”

  Dean held his ground. Lucy didn’t. She crossed the room and didn’t stop until she was in his face, an intimidation technique she’d tried earlier in front of E.T.’s. It was almost comical, given that she stood a good half a foot shorter. He didn’t fall for it then, and he wouldn’t fall for it now, in spite of the scent of her perfume—powder and spring flowers.

  How long could she hold that scowl?

  Neither flinched.

  Dean wondered if they’d stand there all day.

  His phone rang so he moved first, pulling the infernal thing out of his back pocket.

  “Dreiser,” he snapped, turning to stare out the tiny window. “Yes, sir. She’s here.”

  He squinted at Lucy, then sank into the only armchair in the room. “How many?”

  He listened for another minute, then terminated the call with a curt, “Copy that.” He ended the call, removed his ball cap, and put the phone back in his pocket.

  “Lock the outside door,” he said softly.

  Lucy flew back up the short flight of stairs. Returning to the room, she crossed to where Dean still sat.

  “Commander Martin said they’ve found two more bodies. He’s sending pictures to your email now.” He held her gaze, saw again in her eyes the quick movement through emotions— this time from sadness to a stubborn resolve. “You need to pull them up and try to identify the bio-weapon based on the preliminary information Dr. Kowlson is attaching. We’re meeting at one-thirty—A.M.”

  Lucy sank onto the bed, her eyes widening.

  “You have secured wireless in this room. The router is located in the closet in my room. I’ve forwarded the access code to your email.”

  She rose slowly, picked up the backpack she’d placed beside the bed. Unzipping it, she removed her laptop and placed it on the small table.

  Dean stood too, feeling so much older than he had when he’d crawled out of bed eight hours earlier. He walked over to her and stopped. Knowing he shouldn’t, he reached out and pulled her hair back behind her shoulders, studied the deep brown eyes searching his. “You should eat. I’ll go buy you something and bring it back.”

  She didn’t pull away. Her eyes locked on his, and something passed between them. Then she nodded and re-focused on her monitor, on the answers they needed.

  They were in this together, though Dean still questioned the wisdom of allowing an agent with no field experience on such a mission. Ten days, fourteen at the most, then Dean would get as far away from those eyes threatening to drown him as he could.

  Until then, he’d watch her back. This was a terrible mission to pull for your first.

  Two more bodies in the desert. Someone had sent a message, and it had come through loud and clear. What worried Dean the most was the persons responsible still hadn’t breathed a word about what they wanted. He knew from experience that no demands equaled the worst possible scenario.

  THE SUITE OF OFFICES looked like any other place of business in Roswell. The occupants went to extreme measures to assure legitimate business was conducted there on a daily basis. No one could tie it to the terrorist organization it housed, because no evidence of any kind was allowed within its walls.

  The woman entered the outer room with her passkey. It was empty of personnel, as he’d promised. Always, they met alone. If other cell leaders existed, and logic dictated they did, she would never meet them. It was enough to know she was allowed to be part of this mission. Of course, she had men and women working under her, but even then she preferred not to know their names.

  She knocked on the door to the executive office, waited for his command.

  “Enter.”

  She opened the door but didn’t step over the threshold. Instead she waited for him to look up. When he did, her heart nearly stopped. The longing deep inside her threatened to consume her. Only he could awaken this passion—it was a desire unlike any she had known before. She had considered such feelings dead.

  Her existence had become consumed by their mission and her need for him. She would—she had—given her life for both. She didn’t regret her decision. She did marvel that she could feel excited and alive again.

  “All four bodies have been found and transported to secure locations,” she said.

  “How can you be sure?”

  “We injected tracers in each one. These tell us the exact location for up to twenty-four hours.”

  He approached the window, gazed out over the flat, desert scene, then pivoted and pierced her with his cold stare. “Dr. Kowlson’s team will find these tracers.”

  “No. They must follow a very strict protocol, which begins by photographing the body. Then they will catalogue the damage. By the time they begin the autopsy, the isotopes within the tracers will have dissolved.”

  “Nothing will remain?”

  “Nothing at all.”

  He searched her eyes for any hesitation. She knew he would find none.

  “We are watching flight manifests at both the military and local airports?”

  “As you ordered. There has been a fifteen percent increase in activity—n
early all military and government personnel.”

  “They are reacting as we predicted.” He sat back down at the desk, opened a laptop.

  “And according to our time frame.”

  “Then we proceed to Phase Two.”

  LADEN DOWN WITH BLT, fries, and a coke, Dean walked into the apartment and stopped short at the sight of Dr. Lucinda Brown. She had twisted her long hair and clipped it to the top of her head.

  Why did women do that?

  If their hair bothered them, why not cut it off?

  Truth was, he didn’t understand women anymore at thirty-five than he had at eighteen. She’d kicked off her shoes and tucked her feet up underneath her, though a perfectly good stool was right in front of the wingback chair she sat in. She had her bottom lip stuck out in a pout, and all teasing was gone from her face. She looked for all the world like a woman trying to solve a puzzle.

  As Dean crossed the room, he realized it wasn’t a bad analogy—except this puzzle had already destroyed lives and could cost thousands more. From the look on Lucy’s face, she was well aware of the fact.

  He rattled the bag. “Honey, I’m home.”

  “Come and look at this, Dean. Tell me what you think.”

  Dean snagged the straight-backed chair and plopped it next to where she sat. “Eat,” he said, pulling the laptop from her hands.

  “I will, but let me show you this.” Her hands followed the computer across her chair, across his lap.

  Dean told himself to ignore her perfume. Again.

  “I know how to work a laptop, woman. Your shift starts in forty-five minutes. You need to eat and change your clothes.”

  He shifted the laptop to his right so she would back away, but she didn’t. She leaned over him to reach the keyboard.

  “Here’s a picture of the first vic you saw yesterday.”

  All thoughts of Lucy’s perfume fled as Dean studied the image. “Yes, she’s the girl at White Sands.”

  “And here are the other two.”

  Dean’s stomach tightened at the photographs. Lucy’s fingers flew over the keyboard as she maximized windows, lining them up beside each other so they could compare the images.