by Susan Slater
Tommy finished the scrapbook. A feeling of melancholy, pervasive and inescapable filled the room. He picked up his glass of iced tea and absently twirled the ice cubes.
“She’d never been boy-crazy as a girl. She was really quite popular in high school. There was even one boy, Francis something or other, who got serious. But we all encouraged her to think of herself first, establish a career. There was no warning she’d fall for someone ten years younger when she was forty.”
“Ten years younger? When did she tell you that?”
Rose’s head jerked upright, her eyes, distorted by her glasses, registered the terror of a cornered animal. “Well, I, uh, she, uh, had a diary.” Then defiantly, “Why shouldn’t I look? It’s a mother’s right under the circumstances. It could have told me about who would do such a thing to my little girl.”
Tommy felt the excitement rise. Was this the break he needed?
“Can you tell me more about what she wrote?”
Rose dissolved into tears. “She never told me anything anymore. I found out everything by reading about it after she died. It’s all here.” Rose walked to the hutch and pulled a smallish leather bound book off the second shelf. “This Ian and the sandwiches and how handsome he was …” She sat back down. “Here. Do you want to read it? I guess it would be all right … if it finds her killer. But there’s really not much, just what I’ve told you.”
Tommy leaned forward and took the red leatherette book, made supposedly private by a single heart-shaped clasp. The lock had been forced. Tommy couldn’t believe that they still made dairies like this. His sisters had the same model in middle school.
“Could I get you something? More tea?” Rose repeatedly blotted her eyes.
“No, thank you.”
“Take the diary out on the porch where the light’s better. In case you hadn’t noticed, she wrote in purple ink. Scented purple ink. Strains my eyes something terrible to read it—not to mention my nose.”
Tommy carried the diary to the swing, a suspended wooden slat affair that dwarfed the front porch. The sun was high now, sparkling off the pink and fuchsia Cosmos, but he couldn’t seem to shake the deadening mantle of foreboding that pushed down around him. There was a sadness that surrounded Edwina in life and death—a death before dreams had been realized, untimely and brutal … Tommy held the diary a long time before he opened it.
The book was almost full and seemed to chronicle the past year starting exactly on January first. There had been a fight with her mother about spending money to have a nice dinner out. Her mother had insisted on having a “nice TV dinner at home” so Edwina had driven into Albuquerque and had dinner with friends.
There was an account of dancing lessons in the spring and a man named Gerald. This was the man her mother had seen her with no doubt. There had been half a dozen “dates” or, at least meetings. But aside from doing a mean tango, it was quickly apparent that Gerald was not a love interest.
There were countless pages on Fabio—bylaws for the fan club, dates of personal appearances, those close to New Mexico were highlighted in pink. There was a play-by-play report of Edwina’s fainting at Fabio’s feet at a book signing in San Antonio and how he rushed to scoop her up and carry her to a lounge staying with her until she’d regained consciousness. Now that was a little hard to believe. But, maybe not … There was a list of “little gifts” that she’d sent him. Mostly goodies from New Mexico, a chile ristra, a piece of Indian pottery, a silver bracelet with his name in coral. There was no indication that she’d ever heard back, not even a thank you. But this hadn’t seemed to stop her from boxing up something else and taking it to the post office. By August she’d sent six gifts.
Suddenly, the last twenty pages seemed upbeat. A man had shown up one morning at the Information Center … I have always trusted my instincts. This is it. I just know it. I see it in his eyes and the way that he looks at me. I cannot ignore the wanting. He must be ten years younger but age means nothing when people are in love. And it was love at first sight. I will never forget seeing him standing by the door—and so sweet, imploring me to let him use the facilities, truly sorry that my thermos had broken when I’d jumped in fright at seeing him there. And to think that his first thought was of his ailing mother. How sweet to call her. Yes, yes, yes he was in my office, sat at my desk—I believe the essence of him is still there. How can I ever forget that image of a son who interrupts his camping trip to see if his mother is well?
When I close my eyes I see him—that strong jaw and tanned complexion that makes him mysterious. Is his name Ian? He didn’t say that it wasn’t when I asked. He said it was as good as any. I dream of those dark brown eyes and black hair and that powerful chest. I’ll ask him how long he’s been a bodybuilder. A long time I guess—no one ever made a tee shirt and camouflage look so good.
“Camouflage.” Tommy muttered the word out loud. That clinched it. This was definitely the same man that the ranger had seen. He turned the page.
And that tattoo. What am I saying? I hate tattoos, they’re always so cheap, but on Ian the little bird on bulging muscle gives him virility. Maybe there are others. l long to strip away his clothing— There was more in this vein, and Tommy absently wondered what Rose thought when she read it. But he was bothered by something, something he couldn’t quite put a finger on. He continued to read. His pals must be men—to go camping and not bring adequate provisions. He loved the sandwiches and chips. Corn chips are his favorite. I’ll bring more tomorrow. I must see him tomorrow. I want to talk. Not at the office but sitting out in the open air—maybe under the stars. I must find out who he is. I couldn’t bear it if he’s married. But I feel that he isn’t.
Today he said to me “nice sweater.” I felt his eyes on me even when I’d gone behind the desk to answer the phone. He’s so shy. I feel I’m going to have to be the one to break the ice, invite him out somewhere. But where? I’ll think on that. Maybe a movie in Farmington.
Tommy quickly scanned the remaining pages. Nothing new, just lots more in the same vein, then abruptly nothing. The blankness of the white pages seemed ominous. Could this dark, mysterious stranger be her killer? Edwina was infatuated, a first rate case of puppy love.
Tommy closed the diary and sat for a moment. Had Edwina been lured to her death by this man? But that didn’t explain the drawing of an alien head. Still, their first meeting was the morning after the plane incident … which some swore was caused by aliens. How ridiculous. This Ian seemed very real and very normal. It was a shame that Ian was probably not his real name. There wasn’t much to go on. Yet, the man had made a phone call. Perhaps not much, but a lead of sorts if there was a record of it.
“Do you want to take the diary with you?” Rose leaned out the door.
“Yes. I want to show it to the authorities.”
“Oh no. No one else needs to read it, do they? I hate to have people see Edwina as such a fool. She was a good girl in so many ways.” Fresh sniffling.
“But if this man was her murderer—”
“I suppose you know what’s right. Do what you have to.”
“Could I use your phone? I’d like to call the Information Center, see if there’s a record of the phone call he made from Edwina’s office.”
“Help yourself. It’s on the kitchen wall.”
Tommy followed Rose back into the house. He’d call the Center and then drop in on KOAT, Channel 7—the station whose photographers caught the wreckage of the plane. Should he call first? Probably wouldn’t make any difference. There was bound to be someone there who knew something about the night of the crash.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
“Hi. Don’t I know you from somewhere?” The man held the plate glass door open, then followed Tommy inside. It was obvious that he’d been leaving and changed his mind. Tommy recognized the fortyish man as an on-again, off-again anchor for Albuquerque’s six o’clock news. Some years back rumors hinted at a drinking problem and forced removal to the hinterlands.
&
nbsp; “Bruce Bartholomew.” He held out a hand.
“Tommy Spottedhorse. We met four years ago when I investigated a mutilation over by Window Rock.”
“Yeah, I remember now. So, what’s up? Looks like you’re still in the game.”
Tommy nodded and handed a card to the receptionist, then as an afterthought gave one to Bruce.
“I’m here to talk with someone about the alien sightings—the filming crew, if possible.”
“You working that Chaco murder, maybe?”
Tommy smiled, “Maybe.” Bruce was irritating and didn’t seem eager to disappear.
The receptionist slipped her headset in place and pushed at numbers on the panel in front of her.
“Jerry’s in. Let me buzz him. He was the reporter on the scene that night.”
“You might just want to talk with me.” Bruce bent from the waist in a mock bow. “Resident expert on cattle mutilations, at your service.”
“If you really want to be helpful, you can show this man to Jerry’s office. He says he has a few minutes.” Clearly, the receptionist wasn’t one of Bruce’s biggest fans.
But Bruce acted as if he were man of the hour and with a little too much flourish, motioned for Tommy to precede him down a short hall.
“Hey, are you lucky, or what?” Bruce leaned in the door of the last office on the right.
The man behind the desk moved to shake Tommy’s hand and ignored Bruce. Jerry was the kind of man who could make seersucker look mussed. But Tommy instantly liked him—ponytail and all.
“The Air Force has just released my original tape. Would you like to see it?”
Tommy nodded and took a chair opposite the VCR. This was better than he’d hoped for. He leaned forward as the camera panned open ground, then a 360 degree view of the horizon.
“You’d gone up in answer to a call about UFO’s, if I remember correctly?” Tommy asked.
“More like twenty calls. On a scale of one to ten, I’d say they were about a twelve in intensity. We get calls on a somewhat regular basis. The area west and south of Farmington is a corridor for sightings—most popular spot in the U.S.”
“Do you check out every sighting?”
Jerry shook his head, “Can’t, too expensive. But September 14 was different.”
“Jerry’s claim to fame is going to be capturing a little green man on film.” Bruce slouched by the door. A little too prissy to venture into a room stacked with plastic boxes of tapes that hadn’t been dusted in awhile? Could be, Tommy thought.
A flash on the screen caught Tommy’s eye. “What’s that?” Ricocheting balls of green and pink fire bounced across the horizon. Then, just as suddenly, all was dark again. “That’s amazing. Were those things on the ground?” Tommy asked.
“My measurements say some fifty feet above ground.” Jerry said.
“What could make that kind of light?”
“Looked like a bunch of extra large Roman candles to me,” Bruce said.
Jerry rewound the tape and pushed play. Tommy thought he saw a burst of light … a flare? He leaned toward the screen. It was over so quickly, the lights didn’t hang in the sky long enough to fully to illuminate the ground below. “There were two distinct sets of lights? The group and then a singleton?”
“Yes. Both seem to be some kind of flare. The first set shows five balls of light—three green, two pink. The second flash of light, as you saw, was red.”
“Do you think the color is important?”
“Don’t know.”
“But you sound like you think the lights could have been some kind of signal?”
“That’s my guess.” Jerry switched off the tape. “Look at this.” He moved to a desk as littered as the rest of the room and unrolled a topographical map. “If I place the flare at this quadrant and the bouncing lights here, the point in between would be here.” Tommy noticed the spot already had a mark. “And this is more or less where we found the F-117A. It took us awhile. Twenty-two minutes to be exact. There was a fire in the cockpit and then a series of explosions. The plane was engulfed by the time we got close.”
Jerry turned back to the VCR and after fast forwarding, slowed the tape at the first sign of billowing smoke. Tommy watched silently as the smoke cleared, then once again obscured the wreckage. He had him go back to the frames showing the boots sticking out from under a wingtip.
Tommy felt like he was stalling. But he just didn’t want to believe that Brenda Begay had stood out there in the desert, watched a plane crash-land and then realized her fiancé was dead. What would he have done in the same situation? Did it make a case for someone going a little crazy and just disappearing?
Yet, Tommy had seen the signals on the tape. He wasn’t certain about the first ones, but the second came from close to where Brenda’s truck had been found. So, what did that mean? Did Brenda have anything to do with signaling the plane? But what if there had been a rendezvous planned and she had signaled the plane, then watched her loved one die? But hadn’t they set up a date to go for coffee? Well, not exactly a date but time to be spent drinking coffee … talking. He remembered her eagerness. She’d already jumped into the Bronco when the call came. No, she was not connected with the downing of the Stealth. He wasn’t letting feelings cloud his judgement—he had evidence.
Tommy wished with all his heart that Brenda was safe somewhere. And the tapes gave no clue as to what had happened to her. Had he hoped that he would see some hint— something only he would recognize? It was foolish to get his hopes up. He leaned back, hands clasped behind his head and rocked back to balance on two chair legs.
“So what do you think happened out there? Any ideas what might have happened to the woman who supposedly witnessed the crash?”
“Alien abduction?” Jerry sounded half serious. And as completely as Brenda had disappeared, it almost made sense.
“Are you a believer?” Bruce asked from the doorway.
Tommy’d forgotten that he was still there. “Believer?”
“In little green men?”
“I don’t rule anything out. But these lights seem very man-made.”
“If you want to follow up the alien angle, let me give you the name of a guy here in Farmington, retired air-traffic controller who’s made a life of studying this kind of stuff. He’s been working on this sighting. I’ve got his card in my office.” Bruce seemed intent on monopolizing the conversation.
Tommy didn’t particularly want to spend more time with Bruce but as long as he was being thorough … He thanked Jerry for sharing the tape. He hated feeling like he’d reached a dead end.
“Say, did you see my feature on animal mutilation? ’Bout six months back?” Bruce followed him out the door to Jerry’s office and into the hall. “It got the local Pulitzer and all that—uh, I’d like to share my research if you have a minute or two.”
“Sure.” Why not? Tommy had been a cop long enough to know the good stuff sometimes came from the most unlikely sources.
Bruce’s office was barren in comparison to Jerry’s. Plaques dating some ten years past lined the walls next to promotional shots—publicity done when Bruce was much younger, Tommy thought. Then there was almost a grotto, a shelf holding nothing but a statue and pictures of Bruce accepting the statue. Tacked to the wall behind was an enlarged copy of the article which included another picture of Bruce, only this time kneeling and cradling the head of a grotesquely mutilated calf.
“Great article. Best reporting I’ve done. But to get the recognition it deserved—well, that doesn’t happen too often. I was lucky.”
“Tell me about the mutilations on September 14.”
“Be glad to. Excuse me a minute.” Bruce pulled out the center drawer to his desk, grabbed something and then leaned his head back as he squirted drops in each eye. “Allergies. If I don’t do this once an hour, I could go blind.” A hurried laugh. “Well, maybe not blind, just permanent damage to the cornea.” When he sat forward, Tommy could see the red rims and bright red blo
od vessels that stood out sharply against the white.
“You know more than one animal was found that night?”
“There was a goat on the reservation and a calf over this way—closer to Farmington, I think.” Ben had informed him about Amos’s loss.
“Right. Those two carcasses were found some fifty miles from one another but both done by the same hand, well, that is, by whatever they have. Hands with six fingers, isn’t it?”
“You support the alien theory?”
“Absolutely. Here look at these.” He slid a scrapbook across the desk. “Start in the middle. These are from the past two years. Cases from Colorado, New Mexico, and Utah. Now, compare the photos. What you’ll see is that they’re identical. Not one calf or goat or lamb looks any different from the other. All have those telltale, laser-perfect wounds.”
Tommy had to admit that every picture looked alike—cookie-cutter perfection. “When did the incident take place that won the award?”
“My journalism was recognized six months back, but I’ve been photographing, keeping a log—that sort of thing for some years now. I was awarded for my diligence, really—my composite of events over a couple years’ time.”
“Did you say you were already under a doctor’s care?” Tommy watched as Bruce leaned back and applied pressure to both eyes with balled fists, then extended fingertips.
“Well, not exactly. Pharmacist thought it was allergies. It’s just that the itching is so bad.”
“You might want to see a doctor.”
“Thanks, but let me decide that.”
Testy. Must be because he’s so uncomfortable, Tommy thought.
He turned back to the scrapbook. “Why do you think the cuts are so …” He struggled to find the right words.
“Sex-organ specific? That bothers a lot of people.” He turned the scrapbook and leafed through several pages, then stopped, and shoved it back. “Here, for example. Best photo I have of the anal coring. It looks like that, doesn’t it? Just like someone or something cored out that heifer like she was an apple.”
