Repairman Jack 03 - Conspiracies

by F. Paul Wilson

  The biographical sketch in the rear of the program book said he was a native of South Carolina and now a professor of anthropology at Northern Kentucky University.

  Jack wondered how a college professor afforded Armani suits. Maybe he did a lot of public speaking, because he seemed to have a gift. He'd seized this audience of about three hundred. They listened in rapt attention, breaking into applause every time he paused. The crowd itself surprised Jack. The SESOUPers were older than he'd expected. The average age had to be forty-plus. Lots of gray heads in the audience, which was pretty evenly divided between the sexes, but almost exclusively white—he'd seen only one black face since he'd entered.

  He'd been anticipating more picturesque types, and indeed he'd spotted a few ethereal, long-haired New Agers, and the inevitable bearded fat guy doing the Michelin Man thing in a stretched-to-the-limit "Abductees Do It In Space" T-shirt, but mostly he saw lots of old guys wearing white shoes and string ties with a flying saucer cinch, matrons in warm-ups and polyester pants suits, nerdy engineer types with pocket protectors and suspenders. The home towns on their badges were in states like Colorado and Missouri and Indiana.

  On the whole, what was so striking about SESOUP's members was their very ordinariness. Middle America seemed to be heavily into conspiracies.

  Jack didn't know whether to be heartened or dismayed.

  After the standing ovation for Roma's address, everyone streamed into a large adjoining room for the cocktail reception. Jack watched singles, couples, groups greeting each other with smiles and hugs.

  "Looks like a pretty friendly group," he said.

  Lew nodded. "They're good people. A lot of us know each other from other similar organizations. Most are like Melanie and me—no close living relatives, not much in common with their neighbors. For many of us, these conferences are almost like family gatherings." He held, up a couple of drink tickets. "Thirsty? I'm buying."

  "I thought you didn't drink."

  "I'm making an exception tonight."

  "Okay. I'll take a beer. Anything as long as it's not made by Anheuser-Busch."

  As Lew threaded his way through the crowd toward the bar, two middle-aged women stopped before Jack.

  The taller of the pair introduced herself as Evelyn Something-or-other, a big, chunky blonde wearing a bright red dress, little white socks, and shiny Mary Janes on her tiny feet—all Jack could think of was an old comic book character ... Little Dot's voracious friend ...

  Little Lotta.

  "I'm the program chairwoman?" Evelyn said. It sounded like a question. In fact, just about everything out of her mouth sounded like a question. "Lew told me about your experience? We're planning on holding panels? You know, with experiencers? Would you care to participate?"

  "No, thanks," Jack said. "I'd rather not."

  Evelyn smiled sympathetically. "I know there's some controversy? I mean, about your being here? But that shouldn't put you off? It's good to share? And the audience? It will be totally nonjudgmental?"

  "I really don't have all that much to tell," Jack said. "I hardly remember a thing about it." How true, how true.

  "I can fix that," said the other, a hawk-faced, anorectic-looking woman.

  "Oh, I'm sorry," said Evelyn. "This is Selma Jones? A memory-recovery therapist?"

  Selma fixed him with an intent share. "I've helped many, many experiencers regain 'lost' hours. I can help you."

  And maybe turn me into an Olive Farina? Jack thought.

  "Maybe some other time."

  "Well, if you, you know, change your mind?" Evelyn said, laying a gentle hand on his arm. "About the panel? You'll let me know?"

  "Sure. Thanks for asking. You're very kind to care."

  He meant that. She seemed sincere. And it couldn't hurt to have an ally or two among the membership.

  The pair moved off, and Jack looked around for Lew.

  He spotted him limping toward him with a Bass Ale in each hand. He had a trim, middle-aged man in tow.

  "Jack," Lew said, handing him a bottle. "I want you to meet one of SESOUP's more prominent members, Jim Zaleski."

  Jack had read about Zaleski in the program book which described him as "the world's foremost ufologist who has devoted his entire life to unexplained aerial phenomena and alien manifestations." In person he appeared to be in his late forties with thin lips, hornrimmed glasses, and longish dark hair that he repeatedly brushed off his forehead.

  "Lew says you're the last one to hear from Mel," Zaleski said, giving Jack a quick handshake while his voice did light speed. "Want to talk to you about that. Got plans for breakfast tomorrow?"

  "Nothing firm: a couple eggs, maybe bacon, but I could go the pancake route."

  Zaleski didn't even blink. "Great. Meet me down in the coffee shop about eight. We'll talk." He clapped Lew on the shoulder. "Gotta run, Lew. Gotta work the goddamn room."

  As Zaleski melted into the throng, Jack told him about turning down Evelyn's offer to be on the experiencers panel.

  "Did I do the right thing?"

  Lew nodded. "I'd say so. Keep things as vague as you can. The more you tell, the less interesting you'll be."

  "Well, thank you very much."

  Just then Lew reached out and grabbed the shoulder of someone passing by, a stocky older man with short gray hair.

  "Miles! Miles, I want you to meet someone." The man stopped and turned their way. "Miles," Lew said. "This is Jack Shelby. I told you about him earlier. Jack, this is Miles Kenway."

  Kenway's handshake was firm and lingering. He had a lined face and a military bearing. He wore a snug herringbone sport jacket, and appeared to be in good shape.

  His icy blue eyes bored into Jack. "Good to meet you, Shelby. We must talk in depth of your experience sometime, but first let me ask you: Do you remember seeing any black helicopters at the time?"

  "Uh, no," Jack said slowly, hesitating. Was this a trick question? "It was night."

  Kenway's brow furrowed. "Yes. Yes, of course. Well, carry on then," he said and marched off.

  "Warm fellow," Jack said to Lew as he watched Kenway work his way into the crowd.

  "And now you've met all the SESOUP big shots—except Melanie, of course. Miles is the one that worries me. He's a former Army Intelligence staff sergeant who was attached to NATO where he says he came across secret UN plans to take over the country. He now heads a militia unit outside Billings, Montana."

  "You mean one of those white supremacist groups?"

  "He's not a racist as far as I can tell. Just staying prepared for when the shock troops of the New World Order invade the United States." Lew raised an eyebrow.

  "Whatever gets you through the night," Jack said.

  He watched Kenway's broad retreating back and thought he noticed a slight bulge in his sport coat at the small of his back. Was he carrying?

  Both military and intelligence training, most likely armed, and probably a few Fruit Loops shy of a full bowl. Dangerous combination. This was a guy to watch.

  He glanced at Lew and found him staring at the carpet, a million miles away, and lost there.

  "Thinking of Melanie?" Jack said.

  He nodding, blinking and biting his upper lip.

  "We'll find her."

  "But will she be okay when we do?" Lew said.

  Jack couldn't answer that with any authority, so he said nothing.

  "I really miss her," Lew said. "Especially now. This kind of gathering was always the best time for us." He took a deep shuddering breath. "I think I'll go back to my room and leave the TV on ... maybe Melanie will contact me again. You'll be okay?"

  "Sure," Jack said. The poor guy looked truly miserable ... like a hound dog who'd lost his master. Jack felt for him. "Go ahead. I'll just hang out and ... mingle."

  Mingle? Jack thought as Lew moved off. I haven't the faintest idea how to mingle.

  He never went to cocktail parties and had no skills at small talk. He felt like a stranger at a family reunion. But at least i
t seemed like a friendly, open family. He started weaving among the small groups clustered throughout the crowded room—

  And came face to face with Professor Salvatore Roma. Jack swallowed another surge of distaste and forced a smile. He'd have to build bridges here if he was going to learn anything about Melanie Ehler's whereabouts.

  "Good speech, professor," he said.

  Roma blinked in surprise; his expression remained guarded, as if waiting for a zinger. When it didn't come, he smiled cautiously. "Why ... thank you, Mr. Shelby. Very kind of you to say so. It seems we got off on the wrong foot earlier."

  "Just a misunderstanding." Jack imagined himself extracting a few of Roma's too-white teeth. "I've forgotten it already."

  "So have I." But Roma's eyes said otherwise.

  "By the way, where's your better half?"

  "My better—?"

  Jack tapped his own shoulder. "Your affectionate little pet."

  "Oh, you mean Mauricio." He chuckled mirthlessly. '"My better half,' indeed. Mauricio is back in my room. He doesn't do well in crowds."

  "Not too cool in the one-on-one department, either. He tried to bite me before you showed up earlier."

  Roma's grin broadened. "Over the years I've found Mauricio to be an excellent judge of character."

  As much as he hated to, Jack had to smile. Score one for you, Sal.

  "Later," Jack said, and began to turn away.

  "Oh, one more thing," Roma said.

  As Jack faced him again, Roma raised his right hand with his three middle fingers raised and curved. He moved it slowly downward on a diagonal in front of Jack's body.

  "What's that?" Jack said. "The secret SESOUP salute?"

  Roma sighed. "Hardly," he said softly. He shook his head. "How easily we forget."

  Jack stared at him, baffled. "Forget what?"

  But Roma only smiled and moved off into the crowd.

  6

  Miles Kenway swirled his scotch on the rocks and watched Roma and the newcomer talking. Something not right between those two. Everybody knew about the showdown between them this morning—almost came to blows from what Miles had heard—and now they were smiling at each other. How do you figure that?

  Maybe I'm just cranky, he thought.

  Not without good reason: When he'd checked into his room today he'd found that it faced east. No way he was staying in a room that faced toward the UN. No telling what kind of devices those NWO types over there would be aiming at him during the night. He'd gone back to registration and got in their faces until they put him in a west-facing room.

  He took a sip of his scotch and watched Roma and the newcomer go their separate ways. Roma was okay. Miles had him checked out—a professor just like he said; a family man with a wife and two kids, no criminal record, no ties to shady organizations. But the newcomer ...

  Jack Shelby ... I'll just bet.

  Miles couldn't say exactly what it was, but something about this fellow didn't sit well. Maybe it was the way he looked at people. Those eyes ... just sucking in everything. But sneakily: watch him raise his beer to his lips and scan the room while he takes a long, slow sip.

  Wouldn't surprise me a bit if he's already spotted my .45, he thought.

  Or maybe it was the way the newcomer moved. Like a cat. No, not just a cat—a jaguar. A just plain nobody who just happened to lose a few hours after seeing a light in the Jersey Pines shouldn't move like a predator cat.

  Miles had seen men like that. He had a couple of them in his unit back in Montana. Always looked ready to spring into action. Both were ex-Navy SEALs.

  Was this fellow special forces too? Had the One Worlders brainwashed him, changing him from someone sworn to protect his country into someone dedicated to bringing it down?

  He wouldn't be the first.

  Another thing that bothered Miles about Shelby was the way he'd appeared out of nowhere and insinuated himself into a supposedly exclusive group.

  But why should that surprise me? he thought with a mental shake of his head. The SESOUP folks aren't the most alert bunch.

  Lew was too gullible, pure and simple. He took far too many things at face value. And unless Shelby was wearing a pentagram or inverted cross tattooed on his forehead, Olive would think he was okay. And Zaleski ... he was only on the lookout for aliens.

  Miles knew that the threat to the world as he knew it would arrive as a perfectly normal human being. Melanie probably knew it too. Were she here, she'd keep this Shelby character at arm's length. Miles and Melanie were the only sensible ones among the members ... and sometimes he wasn't so sure about her. She'd been getting some weird ideas lately.

  As usual, Miles would have to rely on himself. And his contacts.

  He still had a few trusted moles in the intelligence community. His best was in the FBI—a good man, recently converted to the cause, who'd agreed to stay with the Bureau in order to keep an eye on things from the inside. It might be wise to ask him to do a background check on this Jack Shelby, just like he'd done on Sal Roma.

  Miles would keep a close watch on Shelby tonight and see where he left his beer bottle. He'd use that as a fingerprint source. An excellent starting point.

  7

  Jack wandered the room, focusing here and there on the various conversations in progress around him. He heard "JFK" mentioned to his right and saw half a dozen middle-aged men and women standing in a loose circle. He sidled their way.

  "Look," said a silver-haired fellow with a neatly trimmed beard, "all the evidence shows that Kennedy was killed because he was going to reveal MJ-12's deal with the grays."

  Jack blinked. MJ-12? Grays? Was this some sort of code?

  "Haven't you seen the latest?" said a round-faced woman with long straight brown hair. "His driver was the second gun, and he administered the coup de grace because Kennedy was going to pull us out of Vietnam!"

  "Going to take us out of Vietnam?" said another guy. "Like hell! He'd just committed more troops to Vietnam. No, you two are looking for way-out solutions when the truth is much more mundane. Kennedy was whacked by the mob for screwing with Giancana's babe!"

  They all began talking at once. Just for the hell of it, Jack added to the babble: "Um, how about Oswald?"

  That stopped them cold. They all turned to stare at him. He suddenly felt like a caterer who'd just brought a platter of glazed ham to a Moslem banquet.

  Finally the bearded man spoke. "Oswald? You some kind of nut?"

  They all started babbling at once again, but this time at him. Jack backed away and escaped before they could encircle him, and in the process he bumped into someone.

  "Sorry," he said, turning and offering an apologetic smile to a guy holding an eight-by-ten photo.

  "It's okay," said the guy, who looked to be about eighty. He thrust the photo toward Jack. "Here. Take a look at this." He turned to the younger fellow with him who sported a Fu Manchu mustache. "Here's a completely neutral observer. Let's see what he says." Then to Jack: "Go ahead. Tell us what you see."

  Jack looked at the photo and shrugged. "It's the Earth—looks like a picture of the northern hemisphere of the Earth from orbit."

  "Right—a satellite shot of the North Pole. I had this part of it blown up. See that dark spot? That's the hole that leads to the inside."

  "Inside where?"

  "Inside the earth. It's hollow, you know. There's a whole other civilization inside, and that's the entrance."

  "Looks like a shadow."

  "No, you're not looking closely enough." He snatched the photo from Jack and jabbed his finger at the dark splotch. "That's a huge opening. That's where the saucers come from."

  "Saucers?" Jack said.

  Over the guy's shoulder Jack saw his Fu Manchu'd companion rolling his eyes and rotating his finger by his right temple.

  "Yes!" said the old guy, brandishing the photo. "People have been brainwashed into thinking that UFOs are from outer space. They're not! UFOs are from inside the earth!"

  He
stomped off with his photo.

  "UFOs from inside the hollow earth," the guy with the Fu Manchu said derisively, watching him go. "Some people will believe almost anything."

  Jack nodded enthusiastically. At last—someone with an ounce of common sense. "A bit of a nut, ay?" he said from the corner of his mouth.

  "I'll say. Everybody knows they're based on the dark side of the moon."

  Jack said nothing, just kept nodding and smiling as he backed away. He heard "Princess Di" as he passed another group, and paused.

  "It was the Royal Family, I tell you. Queen Liz offed Di with the help of the Masons. It was the minefield thing."

  "The minefields? Oh, don't be silly!"

  "Those mines are where they are for a reason. You don't really believe they're all just normal land mines, do you? If the poor girl had just kept her mouth shut, she'd still be with us."

  "She is still with us! Nobody offed Di. That whole thing was faked. She's in hiding from the Royal Family."

  "With whom?" Jack said. "Elvis?"

  "Hey, now there's a thought!"

  And there's my cue to move on.

  He glanced at his watch. He had to get out to Elmhurst to set up watch in the Castlemans' backyard, to keep an eye on Gus and the purportedly abused Ceil.

  On his way to the escalators, he saw a squat, red-haired man with a full beard in a wheelchair exiting the elevator. The man began rolling along but after a dozen feet or so he suddenly braked and stared at Jack. He looked almost startled to see him.

  Do I know you? he thought as he passed.

  No. He'd remember a guy like that.

  Jack kept moving. He checked the front of his shirt and pants, but no, his fly was closed and he hadn't spilled anything. As he stepped on the escalator, he glanced back and found the red-haired guy still staring after him.