Roswell's Secret

by Vannetta Chapman

  “Colton doesn’t work on the sales floor. Is there something I can help you with?”

  “I wish.” Dean picked up a brochure, glanced through it, and put it in his back pocket. “I don’t need a Cessna today, though. I’m the bartender at E.T.’s, and Colton left his license there last night. I was driving by, so I thought I’d drop it off.”

  “Oh. That would explain why I haven’t met you. I’m Jessica.”

  She offered a brightly manicured hand over the counter, a hand impossibly young and adorned with a variety of rings and bracelets.

  “I don’t turn twenty-one for another two months. I would have come in, anyway, if I’d known someone was bartending besides Paul.”

  Dean laughed. “Ah, come on. Paul’s a nice guy.”

  “Nice, but at least eighty.”

  Dean pulled off his cap, then set it back on his head.

  “Colton’s out back. You can go through those double doors onto the tarmac, then around to the right. He’s supposed to be washing the planes in the third hanger.”

  “Thanks. I appreciate it. If I need a plane, you’ll be the first person I call.”

  “And if I need a drink, you’ll be the first person I’ll call.”

  “After you’re twenty-one.”

  Jessica stuck out her lower lip, but gave him a friendly wave as he stepped into the morning heat.

  Dean assessed the facility as he hiked toward the third hanger. Great Southwest seemed to do a fair amount of business, judging by the five hangers and general size of the operation. This morning, things were quiet. A pilot and ground-man performed a preflight check on a Cessna 340 outside the second hanger. The doors to the fourth and fifth hangers were closed. According to the brochure, you could rent space to store your private plane in either of the last hangers.

  The third hanger housed the rental planes. As Dean approached it, he could see Colton cleaning the windows on a Piper Warrior.

  “Nice aircraft. Ever get a chance to fly it?”

  Colton spun around, nearly falling off the ladder. When he saw Dean, his frown changed to a pronounced scowl.

  “What do you want, Dreiser?”

  “Maybe I want to rent a plane.”

  “Go talk to Jessica, then, and leave me alone.”

  “I always wondered if your mood improved in the morning. Sure enough, it doesn’t.”

  Colton climbed down the ladder and started to roll it off. Dean stopped him with a hand on his arm.

  “Don’t touch me.”

  “Easy, Colton. I’m looking for a woman. I thought you might be able to help.”

  “Last I checked, you have a woman.”

  “Is that what you’re mad about? Lucy?”

  The two stood eye-to-eye, and Dean waited to see if the boy would throw the punch he’d held for a month. He didn’t know how he’d managed to get under the kid’s skin like a burr under a saddle, but he had. They should probably slug it out and get it over with.

  “Lucy’s all right. I don’t know what she sees in you though.”

  “That makes two of us.”

  Colton rolled his eyes, but his expression eased. He went to a small cooler, pulled out a bottle of water, and took a long drink. “Why do you always piss me off, Dreiser?”

  “I have a bad feeling it’s because we’re a lot alike.”

  When the anger flashed back in Colton’s eyes, Dean held up his hands, palms out, in what he hoped the kid would take as a peace gesture. “I don’t like it anymore than you do. I’m just calling it like I see it.”

  “I need to go to the office. You want to walk with me, tell me what woman you’re looking for, it’s your business.”

  “She was with Bubba last night, and up at Long Canyon the night Lucy rode out with him and Billy.”

  “There were a lot of women in both places.”

  “This one is black, nice-looking, athletic.”

  “I know who you mean.”

  “She have a name?”

  They’d covered half the distance from the hanger to the office. The tarmac stretched in front of them, empty except for the waves of heat rising off it. The Cessna 340 had lifted off and was now a silver dot in the clear morning sky. Dean scanned the area for the ground man, but couldn’t spot him.

  “Everyone has a name, Dean. Why the sudden interest? Ask Bubba. And why do you need to know it at ten in the morning?”

  At the runway’s far north end, another ground-man came out and stood with two directional wands, prepared to direct an incoming plane.

  “She asked me something at the bar last night. She’s embarrassed and doesn’t want Bubba to know. I lost the paper with her number, and now I can’t look it up because I don’t even know her name. Now, stop giving me flak and tell me if you know who she is, and how I can get in touch with her.”

  Colton hesitated, then focused on the south end of the runway. A tiny bright spot had appeared in the sky.

  “Yeah, I know who she is. I don’t have a number, but her name is Jazmine—”

  Colton stopped as a bloodcurdling scream pierced the morning air. It had come from the office.

  “Jessica?” Colton asked.

  They took off running. Entering through the double doors, they found Jessica backed up against the counter, hands over her face, still screaming. A man about sixty years old sprawled on the floor in front of the counter. He looked alive, but barely. Although he wasn’t moving, his eyes were frozen in an expression of agony. An expression Dean had seen once before. As they watched, the skin around his face sloughed off. Blood seeped onto the floor.

  Jessica’s screams dissolved to sobs. She threw herself into Dean’s arms.

  Colton stood frozen just inside the door. His eyes begged Dean to wake him from this nightmare.

  “Who is he?” Dean led Jessica over to Colton.

  She gripped Colton’s arms and continued sobbing into his shirt.

  “Simon Gordon. He’s our sales manager. At least, I think it’s Simon.”

  At the sound of Simon’s name, Jessica’s sobs broke again into hysterical screams.

  “Get her out of here. Call 911. I’ll stay with him.” Dean nodded toward the double doors and saw a Cessna approaching for a landing, then veer off its course.

  Colton backed up to push the doors open at the exact moment the plane skidded off the airstrip’s far side.

  As they watched in disbelief, it crashed into the maintenance building, turning both into one indistinguishable ball of flame.

  The windows in the office rattled. Colton froze once again, obviously torn between choosing the fiery hell outside and the bloodbath on the floor.

  In his arms, Jessica fainted.

  “CARRY HER OUT THE FRONT doors.” Dean positioned himself beside Simon’s torso, but safely away from the pool of blood still expanding out from the man’s head. He didn’t think Simon would live longer than ten more minutes, and he needed to get Lucy’s samples. “Keep her away from any glass and wait for the paramedics.”

  Colton nodded and picked Jessica up as if she weighed no more than a bag of cattle feed.

  “Colton.”

  He’d pushed the door open, allowing in fresh air mixed with the unmistakable odor of burning diesel. Dean heard the sound of approaching sirens. They would deal with the blaze first, but he still had four, five minutes at the most before someone entered the office.

  “Any idea who was flying the plane?”

  “Yeah. Hugh. Hugh Comps. He comes in every morning this time.”

  “How old was he?”

  Colton’s eyes shifted to the dying man on the floor, then back to Dean’s. “Old. Old as Simon.”

  “Okay. Get her out of here. Stay with her.” Dean slipped the gloves on as soon as Colton stumbled out of sight. Pulling the glucose monitor out of his pocket, he picked up Simon’s hand. It appeared normal—showed no symptom of the agony the man was enduring. The sound of running feet on the tarmac snapped Dean back to his gruesome task.

  �
��I think you can hear me, Simon. I’m a federal agent, and I wish I could do something to help you.” He paused, forced himself to look into the old man’s eyes. No skin remained on his face—only tissue, lips, and cartilage. The ligaments and eye sockets were plainly visible around Simon’s eyeballs, which had frozen in place. Yet there still seemed to be consciousness in the gaze that stared back at him. “I will find the persons responsible for this, Simon. I swear upon my life, I will. But right now I need to take some samples.”

  Dean wasn’t aware of the tears slipping down his face, until he saw them drip onto Simon’s wrist. Taking the blood sample from the man’s hand, he placed the strip into the sterilized baggie. Then he removed the swab and a vial from his shirt pocket. He stayed near, but continued to avoid disturbing the circle of blood that still spread—more blood than he would have thought possible. More blood than bullets would have caused.

  He still needed the saliva swab. “I’m sorry, Simon.”

  He whispered the words like a prayer, as he reached for the man’s upper lip. When it came off in his hand, he dropped it, stood and jumped back. Stumbling to the counter, he fought the nausea, choked it down, refused to let it overwhelm him.

  Flashing lights passed by the windows in a blur, speeding to the runway’s edge, to the fire and the death waiting there. Dean reached for the comfort of his Glock, but it was no consolation. Pulling in a deep breath, he forced himself to return to Simon, to offer the man the dignity of not dying alone.

  When he knelt beside Simon again, reached for the wrinkled hand and felt for a pulse, he realized he was too late.

  He wanted to close the man’s eyes, but that was impossible. Instead he breathed in and out—trying to bring his heart rate down to a normal zone—and focused on stripping off the plastic gloves the way Lucy had taught. Suddenly Dr. Kowlson’s voice filled his mind, reminding him the area would remain a hot zone for some time.

  Now Roswell was a hot zone and getting hotter by the minute.

  He was stuffing the gloves back into his pocket when the main door burst open.

  Eaton took a look at Dreiser, then jerked his gaze to the man on the floor. Any remaining doubts Dean had about the sheriff disappeared. Some things could not be faked—the look of pure horror on Eaton’s face was one of them.

  “My god. Is that—? It can’t be. Tell me it’s not...”

  “Colton said it was Simon, the sales manager.”

  Eaton nodded and spun away, a hand over his mouth.

  Dean said nothing, knew he needed to give the man a minute.

  Two deputies burst through the door, nearly colliding with their commanding officer. Their eyes flitted from Eaton, to Dean, to the body. The younger backed out. Dean heard him losing his breakfast. The second deputy stood there, speechless. Eaton spoke to him. “You and Tommy secure this building. I don’t want anyone else inside except the ME. I do not want any reporters near this.”

  His voice shook with emotion. “If I have anything to do with it, this will not be the last image Simon’s wife sees of him.”

  Dean wasn’t too worried about Simon’s wife. In all likelihood, she’d also been at the top of Felix Canyon and had suffered the same fate. It was something Eaton would realize in another hour when the calls started. For the moment, Dean needed to give his statement, and get the one sample in his pocket back to Lucy.

  “I can’t begin to imagine why you’re here, Dreiser. Tell me what you saw, and make it quick.”

  They both turned to look out the windows, where firefighters had managed to put out most of the fire. Additional emergency personnel were setting up a secure perimeter around the crash site.

  “I came to see Colton. We were walking back from Hanger Three when we heard Jessica scream. We ran in and saw Simon on the floor.”

  “And he looked like...like he does now?”

  Dean hesitated. How much should he tell?

  “Not at first. He was lying on his back, and he didn’t seem able to move. I’m not sure he was conscious.”

  “Thank God.”

  “Then the bleeding started.”

  “What happened to his skin?”

  Dean didn’t offer an answer, didn’t think Eaton expected one.

  “Colton and Jessica left?”

  “She became hysterical. I told him to take her outside, which is when the plane crashed.”

  “What are the odds both things would happen at once?”

  Dean shrugged and said nothing.

  “I don’t much believe in coincidences.”

  Dean met the man’s gaze. He waited to see what Eaton would put together.

  “Colton can confirm your story?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “And Jessica?”

  “When she comes around. She fainted. Colton’s with her now.”

  Eaton considered his words, sized up the scene and Dean in a way that spoke of years of experience—though none with tragedies such as this. “A long time ago I learned to go with my gut instinct. Right now, my gut is telling me you know something about this—something you can’t—or won’t—tell me.”

  Dean didn’t confirm or deny what Eaton had said. “My instinct is also telling me you’re on the right side of this. Soon as I get the idea you’re not, I’ll put a bullet in you faster than fire ate that plane.”

  Dean didn’t defend himself, didn’t move, didn’t blink.

  Eaton’s move.

  “Simon was a good man.” Eaton’s voice wavered. Dean didn’t know what to say, so he nodded. Eaton’s radio squeaked, and the sound filled the room like a coyote howl in the middle of the night. “Eaton here.”

  “This is Alice. We have an emergency at the golf course.”

  “What do you think we have here, Alice?”

  “I’m not sure, because no one’s reported in. But if you have less than ten dead, I’d say what’s at the golf course is worse.”

  Ω

  Lucy glanced up from her laptop when Dean arrived. Like the first time she’d seen him, she thought of the burned-out cops from her father’s district. Unlike the first time, it hurt her heart to see age and despair etched on his face.

  “What happened?”

  Dean sank into the chair, put his head back, and allowed himself to surrender for the moment. “My shift starts in fifteen, assuming there’s anyone left to order drinks.”

  Lucy retrieved a soda from their small refrigerator, popped it open for him. “Drink this. It’ll help.”

  He opened his eyes when she placed it in his hands. “Doctor’s orders?”

  “Yes. Doctor’s orders.” She could tell the drink revived him. His color improved, and he managed to sit up a little straighter. Lucy sat down on the bed—close enough so their knees touched.

  “Tell me. I haven’t heard anything on the news.”

  Instead of answering, Dean walked over to the old television set. He imagined Josephine considered replacing televisions a ten- to twenty-year obligation, and then only if an electrical danger existed. Flipping through the news channels, he came up with two Hollywood celebrities and one stock analyst. Pushing mute, he sat back down, and finished the soda.

  “You can be late,” Lucy said. “Tell me everything.”

  “Short version?” He seemed to brace himself, his eyes going distant.

  She felt her mind slip back into analytical mode, where it had been all morning until he’d walked into the room. The events he described were horrific, but she focused on biological details. She needed to identify the virulent strain based on the information he could give her.

  As his recital continued, his breathing grew faster.

  Sometimes, he avoided her eyes, as if embarrassed by his emotions, but he gave her a detailed description of both the victim’s last minutes and his own reaction.

  Lucy fought the urge to grab her laptop and start taking notes. She focused instead on seeing what Dean had seen. When he stopped and stared down at his hands, she reached for them and covered them with her
own.

  “Watching someone die like you did, it’s very different from killing someone with a gun or even coming across a victim who has already died in a horrible way.”

  Dean nodded, met her gaze.

  “Do you remember when you confronted me? The day we first met in Albuquerque?”

  Dean had the grace to look embarrassed. “How could I forget?”

  “You were right. I wasn’t ready to shoot and kill someone, didn’t realize the constant pressure of having people trying to erase me like a bad equation on a blackboard.” Her voice quivered, but she pressed on. “Being undercover has been more pressure than I could have imagined.”

  “Lucy, I judged you wrong. You have turned all aces.”

  “I’m saying you were right that I wasn’t ready for the field. Cut yourself some slack. You have not been trained to handle a level five bio-containment lab, let alone one breached in the real world. This kind of death, the kind of microscopic hell I deal with daily—whether it’s unleashed on a rat or on a man—is a terror you must be trained to deal with. It’s an abyss I have stared into since...”

  Dean waited for her to finish, but she shook her head and started again.

  “For a long time now. It takes some getting used to.”

  Dean knew it wasn’t what she had started to say, but he let it go. “You’ll run the sample?”

  “Yes. Ours came up with nothing again, which is good. Maybe I’ll get a match, or a partial match, from this on what they’re using.”

  “Lucy, when Dr. Kowlson and I saw the first victim, we wore bio-hazard suits with an elaborate air filtration system. When you and I saw Angie, you insisted we wear scrubs, including masks. What if I exposed myself to Simon? Could I give it to you?”

  Lucy handed him his cap and keys. “What have you been preaching at me since this started? Our number one priority is to maintain our cover.”

  “Well, number one would be to catch the terrorists. We can’t catch them if we’re dead.”

  “True. But we’ll look pretty conspicuous if we’re the only ones walking around town with bio-hazard suits on, or even filter masks.”

  When he didn’t return her smile, she reached up and kissed his lips. “I don’t think it’s contagious. If it is, we’re all dead anyway. Now, go to work. I only have three hours until my shift starts, and I have a lot to do here. Shoo.”