by Rachel Ford
“Nothing,” he mumbled. “Just tired of driving.”
She nodded. “Well, go home then. Get some sleep. Just make sure you’re on the road bright and early.”
When Alfred stopped by Nancy’s office on the way out, she’d been consulting with a few members of her team about a service call. He’d barely been able to convey that he was off for Sand Plains a second time, and she’d barely been able to wish him good luck, before the work demanded her attention.
Anything more would have to wait until he was back on Friday, he decided with a sigh.
He was on the road early the next morning, and this time he reached Sand Plains before noon. He went to the museum. Trent was there. “Ah, back for another tour?”
“No,” Alfred said. “Actually, I’m looking for your boss, Mike Cassidy. He around anywhere?”
“Mike?” The young man seemed surprised by the query. “Sure. He’s in the back. But he doesn’t usually meet with visitors.”
“He’ll want to meet me.”
“Can I ask what it’s about?”
“I’m with the IRS. I have some questions for him.”
Trent balked. “Oh. Oh! I’ll get him right away.” He scurried away as if he was afraid of catching something just by being in the proximity. Alfred watched him go.
He disappeared into a room off of one of the exhibit halls. The taxman caught the glimpse of two figures beyond, a man in a dark suit and a man in jeans and a t-shirt, before the door closed. For a minute, all was still. Then Trent reappeared, his boss a few steps behind.
Alfred caught a second glimpse of the suit-clad form in the office, but it was too fleeting to try to identify him. Cassidy, though, he recognized at once from the files. He was an older man, with a trim, salt and pepper beard and mustache, and close-cropped hair. He was sporting one of the “We’re Not Alone” t-shirts from his own gift shop, and sand washed jeans that looked like they’d survived the eighties and were still, somehow, clinging to life.
Trent, meanwhile, slipped into the rear of the museum, casting furtive glances Alfred’s way the entire time, and disappeared from sight.
Cassidy extended a hand as he approached. “Mike Cassidy. Trent says you wanted to speak to me?”
“Alfred Favero,” he said, taking the tax cheat’s hand. “And that’s right. I’ve got some questions about your LLC’s filings.”
“Ah. And I suppose you have a badge or some kind of identification?” He produced his badge, and Cassidy looked it over carefully. “Senior Analyst,” he read, dropping a bit of emphasis on the first portion of his title. “Sounds awfully important. Alright, Senior Analyst Alfred Favero of the Internal Revenue Service…to what do we owe the honor?”
Ignoring the hint of mockery in the other man’s tones, he jumped straight to the point. “As I say, I have questions about your filings. You’ve reported negligible or negative income every year, but I have reason to believe that that’s not accurate.”
Cassidy snorted. “Have I? Do you?”
“Yes, and yes. I’d like to go over the numbers with you.”
“Is this…some kind of audit?”
“This is your chance to clear the air, Mr. Cassidy.”
The older man smiled. “Look, Mr. Favero, I’d love to help you. Really, I would. But today isn’t a good day.”
“Today is a good day,” Alfred countered. “As you say, I’m an analyst-”
“Senior analyst,” Cassidy reminded him with a smile.
“Senior analyst,” Alfred frowned. “I’m the guy you want to talk to. Because the next time we send someone down, it’s going to be a Special Agent. And they’re the guys who have the guns as well as the badges.”
It was Cassidy’s turn to frown, and he pressed his advantage. “See, we analysts work with the revenue officers; we figure things out; we ask questions, like I’m doing now. But those guys? They make the arrests. So once you meet one of those guys, you’re going to have a very bad day.
“But when you meet me? Well, what kind of day it turns out to be depends entirely on you.”
Cassidy considered for a moment, and Alfred felt certain he was going to comply. But then a noise sounded from the back office, and the older man shook his head. “Look, Favero, this is just a misunderstanding.”
“That’s not how you want to play this, Mr. Cassidy.”
“I’m not playing. It is a misunderstanding. If there’s problems with my forms, I’m sure it’s nothing that can’t be resolved.”
“That’s why I’m here.”
“Yeah, but, like I say, today is not a good day. No, really, I mean it. We’ve got the Hill Festival tonight.”
“What?”
“To commemorate the first reported abduction in the United States.” In answer to Alfred’s blank stare, he further explained, “Betty and Barney Hill. It’s the anniversary of their abduction.”
The taxman cleared his throat. “Mr. Cassidy, this is not a trifling matter. I’ve gone through decades of your filings. There seem to be discrepancies in all of them.”
Mike held up his hands. “It’s a misunderstanding. Look, I’ll give you my lawyers’ numbers.”
“Lawyers?” Alfred wondered curiously. What would a mild-mannered conman need with a lawyer, much less multiple lawyers?
“Yeah. I’ll get you their contact info, and tell them to expect a call from you. I’m sure they’ll be able to straighten this out. But that’s the best I can do.”
From this stance, Mike Cassidy could not be budged, going as far as to raise the specter of calling the police when Alfred pressed him further. So, assuring Landing Site Earth’s owner that he was making a mistake, the taxman took the contact info, and took his leave.
He did not, however, leave Sand Plains. The incident had been too unusual to justify an immediate retreat. Usually, when confronted with their tax fraud, cheats would clam up and get nervous – like Trent had done – or project an air of aggrievement, as if they were being wronged. Cassidy had seemed unconcerned, like nothing about the proceedings fazed him. He’d been flippant even.
Alfred sat in his car, pondering that. He didn’t for an instant believe that it was actually just a misunderstanding. Was Cassidy a fool, who didn’t realize his peril?
He frowned. And who was the man in the suit, sitting in Cassidy’s office? Why had his demeanor changed from helpful to recalcitrant when he’d heard movement, presumably from the Suit.
No, there’s something else going on here. And who in heaven’s name are the Hills, anyway? The name sounded familiar. He was certain it had come up during his museum tour two days ago, but his brain had been subjected to such a deluge of quackery that he couldn’t recall the specifics.
So he pulled up his phone, and punched the name and “UFO” into the search bar of his browser. A picture of an unprepossessing couple with a fat dachshund popped up, and Alfred groaned. He remembered them, alright. They were one of the features of his tour the day before, the couple who had claimed to be abducted and examined by small, gray humanoids. He was pretty sure Phil Fletcher had brought them up once or twice as early victims of alien “seeding,” too.
Still, knowing who they were did nothing to explain why Cassidy would brush him off. He doubted very much that the festival required Mike’s personal intervention. The more he thought about it, the more he was convinced something was up.
And I’m going to figure out what.
Chapter Seven
Alfred scowled at the throngs of people passing his car. He was one part surprised by the fact that so many people could fit in tiny Sand Plains; and another saddened that so many had chosen to do so, for such a ridiculous reason.
He took a sip from his coffee, and noticed that the cup was very low. His scowl deepened. What kind of lunatics, he wondered, insisted on holding a festival at ten-thirty at night? It was timed, the girl at the coffee counter had explained, to coincide with the Hills’ first sighting of the extraterrestrial craft.
Not for the first
time, Alfred wished they’d chosen an earlier time of day to fake their kidnapping. It was one thing to lie. But did they have to make it so damned inconvenient? He still had the drive home, after all. And for reasons that mostly had to do with Nancy, he was determined to make it tonight rather than wait until morning to set out. But, even if he had planned to get a room, it was unlikely there would be any available. Not with all these nutters around.
He checked his phone. It was ten-to-ten. No text messages from Nance. Well, her night must be going well, he thought with less pleasure than the realization probably should have given him. He logged onto her favorite photo sharing app – he was only on it because she’d convinced him to get an account – and brought up her profile. Sure enough, there was a picture of her and the marine in front of a gaudy superhero cardboard cutout.
She was smiling and happy. He smiled at the sight, too; right up until his eyes landed on Stevenson. The marine was all smiles, his arm wrapped around Nancy’s shoulders. Alfred frowned at that. He frowned at the other man’s square-chin and body-builder physique, at the red hair and green eyes that always seemed to catch women’s attention.
He remembered Justin’s words. I’d keep my eye on that one, Freddie. And he wished, now, he’d asked Nancy out before he’d gone. He wished he’d thought to go to that stupid movie with her. He was keenly aware that, instead of Stevenson, it could have been him smiling beside Nancy. Instead of sitting in his car surrounded by lunatics, he could be enjoying his night with Nance at his side.
He read the caption she’d added to the photo. “Catching Fire Fell with my bestie!”
He sighed and turned the phone off. It was five after ten now. The noise from the crowd was rising. More bodies – somehow – made it onto the street. The central road through town had been blocked off for foot traffic, and a stage had been set up at the opposite end of town, near the bed and bath.
Alfred was parked just down the road from Landing Site Earth, though. Whatever Cassidy was planning, he had a hunch it wouldn’t be on the stage. It would be right here.
The minutes rolled by. His clock showed ten-twenty when he finally stepped out of the vehicle and joined the throng. The smell of carnival-type foods wafted along the breeze. He detected churros and elephant ears and cheese curds. Street carts had been set up along the way, and they were constantly busy. The popup trinket stalls seemed equally as popular.
Alfred tried to mingle without being drawn away from his lookout. It was easier said than done, as the ebb and flow of the crowd did not easily lend itself to staying in place. He checked his phone. Three more minutes.
Whatever was planned was supposed to begin at ten-thirty sharp. He moved to the edge of the crowd.
On the minute, a set of lights appeared in the night sky. Alfred didn’t see it at first, but the crowd’s cheering drew his attention. They were staring at the sky, and he glanced up too.
He saw a bright light on the horizon. It seemed very far away, but moving quickly. The UFO enthusiasts around him clapped and whistled their approval, and, despite himself, Alfred had to admit that the show was very good. However they were doing it, it didn’t look cheap or fake.
A booming voice sounded at the far end of the plaza, and Alfred cringed as the sounds assailed his ears. They were the familiar tones of Trent Warwick, amplified by a set of powerful speakers of moderate quality. It was enough to make his voice inescapable, and, at this range, almost unintelligible. Almost, but, alas, not quite.
“Imagine the scene, folks,” Trent called. “You’re on Route Three. It’s late, it’s dark. The road is empty; you’re all alone out here. You see lights.
“You stop the car to observe this phenomenon – and, to your horror, it starts to observe you. It starts to follow you.”
The lights, now, moved overhead. A thrill of satisfaction rose from the crowd. Trent continued, “You get back in the car, and you run. And this thing – this rotating disc, this ship follows.
“It stops you on a lonely stretch of highway, and you see beings peering back at you. You hear them talking to you – in your mind.
“They tell you to wait where you are; they’re coming for you.
“Imagine your terror, folks. Well, that was the reality that Barney and Betty Hill experienced on this night, in 1961, when visitors from the Zeta Reticuli system touched down on Earth.”
The lights seemed to land somewhere in the distant desert, behind Landing Site Earth.
Trent continued. “This was the beginning of a strange voyage for the Hills. Barney and Betty were kidnapped. Examined. Biological samples were taken.
“But they saw wonders, my friends. They communicated with our visitors. They saw their language, they saw their star charts. They saw their ship.
“And then they were sent home.” The lights lifted now, beginning a return arc. “They never saw our friends from Zeta Reticuli again. But – despite the fact that the extraterrestrial scientists tried to wipe their memories – they remembered. And we remember.”
The lights, the makeshift UFO, sped off into the night, and the crowd erupted in cheers. Alfred sighed, and glanced back at Landing Site Earth. Was this all he’d waited for? A bit of theatrics to celebrate the shared delusions of two-
His thoughts broke off suddenly. He saw figures, dark against the pale desert, heading toward the museum. He counted four forms. He saw the light jeans of Mike Cassidy, and two men in dark suits. The fourth, he could not entirely distinguish. He – or she – seemed to be wearing some kind of light jumpsuit.
Alfred’s curiosity was entirely piqued. He headed for the museum, leaving Trent’s prattle and the crowd’s excitement behind, a distant memory. Whatever Mike Cassidy was up to, the long arm of the law was about to catch up to him.
Chapter Eight
Alfred crept around the back of the building. The four figures were headed into a back door, and he could see them a little more clearly now in the light that seeped beyond the blinds on the rear windows. He was certain of his identification of Cassidy. The men in suits he didn’t recognize, although he thought one of them might have been the visitor in Mike Cassidy’s office earlier. The fourth person was harder to catch a glimpse of, though. He was situated squarely between the two men in suits, and being of much slighter stature, was mostly obscured by their hulking bodies.
They entered the museum, and Alfred darted forward, catching the door before it latched. His hands were shaking with nervousness, and he took a breath to calm himself. Then, carefully – very carefully, so not to trip any bells on the other side – he squeezed inside.
Then, he froze. The four figures had their backs to him, but even from this vantage, it was enough to see that one of the visitors was not human. His head was smooth and blue, his skin mottled with flecks of darker color. It was casting wide eyes between its human hosts, as if, Alfred thought, it was frightened.
His first instinct was to scream, but then his better instincts kicked in. He was a law enforcement official. He was an analyst with the Internal Revenue Service. He didn’t break down in the face of challenges. He pulled himself together – and documented his finds. With trembling hands, he pulled out his phone, and flipped to the camera. He snapped a picture, then another.
The flash went off, and all four figures turned. This time, Alfred did scream. But he kept taking his pictures. The men in suits pulled the humanoid toward Cassidy’s office. Cassidy himself darted for Alfred, saying, “Dammit, what the hell are you doing here?”
Cassidy grabbed for Alfred’s phone as he reached him. The taxman retreated, heading for the door. His mind was a mess of confusion – he had no idea what he’d just seen – but he knew that he had to get out of there. He could work the rest out later.
He burst out the back entrance, but got no further than five steps before he felt the electrodes of a taser bite into his flesh. In the next instant, he was on the ground writhing.
Pain swarmed his senses. He was only vaguely aware of Mike Cassidy’s knee, biti
ng into his back; and then a syringe, being jabbed into his flesh.
Then Alfred’s world went dark.
He woke in a cell, with every centimeter of his body seeming to hurt. He was lying on a cot, with a rough blanket underneath him and a concrete ceiling above.
He groaned and tried to sit. At first his muscles quivered, like they were made of jello, and resisted any attempt at manipulation. Then, slowly, grudgingly, they acquiesced. He rose to a sitting position, and dangled his legs off the cot. His head swam with the motion, and his stomach churned. For a minute, he feared he might upchuck his dinner.
Eventually, though, the roiling of his insides quieted, and he was able to get to his feet. He headed to the bars. “Hello?” he called. “Anyone there?”
He glanced up and down the hall. It was a small, off-white stretch of prison, with cells on either side. He was, as far as he could tell, the only occupant. “Hello?”
A sound, like the grating of metal on metal, screeched down the hall, followed by footsteps.
“Who is there?” he demanded.
By way of answer, a man dressed in a deputy’s uniform stepped into view. “Well, well,” he said. “Looks like our drunk-and-disorderly is awake.”
“Who are you?” Alfred asked. “Where am I?”
“I’m Deputy Beck. And you are in the Sand Plains jail.”
“In jail? Why am I in jail?”
Beck raised an eyebrow. “Oh, we’ve got a list. Trespassing, disorderly conduct, public drunkenness.”
Alfred blinked. “Drunkenness? Disorderly conduct? I was attacked! They’re kidnappers. They’ve got an alien in that basement.”
Deputy Beck stared at him, then laughed out loud. “Mike said you were ranting about aliens.”
“It’s not a joke, deputy,” Alfred protested. “I’m serious. There’s an alien in the museum. I’ve got pictures.”
“Sure you do, pal. You and everyone else there tonight. Now why don’t you sleep it off? I’ll check on you in the morning.”
